Llynch We Are Our Ghosts
When I breath, I breath you. A tired man. A substitute
of what he used to share with me.
A hasty grasp, a lonely view, on a predictable end. A
never ending chase for bliss.
Left him tired and worn out.
It gets him how he always should have been.
Tired and worn out.
What is there after you? Why is this haunting you? How
much inside of you?
Where is the youth in you?
I’m your empty head. Just lay it down in my bed. Open
wide, you’re force fed.
We are our ghosts.
As if we had another life (and in the end we’re still
alive).
We are our bones. As if we had another skull (and in
the end we feel nothing).
Looking back, down below. Can’t find myself. It never
showed.
Times the tie. That binds our eyes.
And we may never come to meet the silence that is in
our open mouths.
And we may never come to meet the loudness that is in
unspoken words.
And we may never come to meet the sharpness that is in
our silenced tongues.
And we may never come to meet the coldness that is in
our open arms.
And we may never come to see the tremors that are in
the gift of doubt.
And we may never come to meet that our sweetest
passion’s not the one we found.
And we may never come to meet desires that are out of
our hands reach.
And we may never come. So it cuts its way to the heart.
And I tear all my doubts apart. And I disarm there for
you. It is done.
The ‘ME’ is gone.
