Midnight Palace
Vendor
- Messages
- 640
- Location
- Hollywood, CA
This is just some random inspired writing I did the other day while looking out of my window:
In the fairy-tale land where dreams are sold, the once ambitious are beggars in hell's waiting room. The monster lurks over the standing glass, breathing down on impatient trend setters. As they navigate, remaining unaware, the oil gets in their blood and dilutes the simple gifts. And, how much they pay for the fuel!
These poor of heart have traded one strength for lush promises, or those that glitter beside people who settle. The evidence is buried and exhumed, but many ignore their shovels despite the resulting suffocation. Under the dirt is the echo of sighs - the soundtrack for millions of eager visionaries. And, they dance in the lights while the monster holds a stopwatch. Time waits for none but slows for torture.
The tall boxes have see-through eyes, deadness. Even in the illumination, a darkness looms over these intentionally imprisoned mannequins. They recognize camaraderie in their brothers and sisters, related in tragedy - and they're all destined to become legendary. Sing me a song for freedom and write the words as you go along. I'll tune the strings for you; I know the instrument well. I've slept away the memory of all my yesterdays...
Now that I blend in with the lost, I might be considered one of them myself. We look no different physically, but our unpublicized souls could not be more conflicting. Your magazines will not gossip about my "self", nor will your networks cover their electric static with my personal growth. As I write, an observer, obviously of enough substance to see through this double-sided mirror, I realize that I must be enlightened to some extent. I'll never be hollow or unfulfilled. So long as the lost exist, I'll forever shelter their lonely smiles in the confines of my own.
In the fairy-tale land where dreams are sold, the once ambitious are beggars in hell's waiting room. The monster lurks over the standing glass, breathing down on impatient trend setters. As they navigate, remaining unaware, the oil gets in their blood and dilutes the simple gifts. And, how much they pay for the fuel!
These poor of heart have traded one strength for lush promises, or those that glitter beside people who settle. The evidence is buried and exhumed, but many ignore their shovels despite the resulting suffocation. Under the dirt is the echo of sighs - the soundtrack for millions of eager visionaries. And, they dance in the lights while the monster holds a stopwatch. Time waits for none but slows for torture.
The tall boxes have see-through eyes, deadness. Even in the illumination, a darkness looms over these intentionally imprisoned mannequins. They recognize camaraderie in their brothers and sisters, related in tragedy - and they're all destined to become legendary. Sing me a song for freedom and write the words as you go along. I'll tune the strings for you; I know the instrument well. I've slept away the memory of all my yesterdays...
Now that I blend in with the lost, I might be considered one of them myself. We look no different physically, but our unpublicized souls could not be more conflicting. Your magazines will not gossip about my "self", nor will your networks cover their electric static with my personal growth. As I write, an observer, obviously of enough substance to see through this double-sided mirror, I realize that I must be enlightened to some extent. I'll never be hollow or unfulfilled. So long as the lost exist, I'll forever shelter their lonely smiles in the confines of my own.
