Tuesday, November 18, 2008

The pitcher looks empty
no wonder I can
find poetry in the
curves of a roof top
staring aimlessly
at the face in white .

I was in a dreamland
But those dreams
never find a reality

They will always exist as
illusions and soon would be
forgotten under the tides of time

Unless you make them
Real when sober

There is something called as "True Lies"