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THIS IS MY LOT, BEAUTIFUL STRANGERS.
If life were but a flower, Would we be victims of our own disguises Hiding in the name of beauty Loving in the superficiality of passion? The chapters which unfold Will be the petals which wither and fall And the days of a life, Would scream impending Misfortune in its face, Inevitably evident, Indecently little. But what's in A Life if it were so frail (you could trample upon it) What's in Beauty, if it were only a second's moment, What's in Love it were but lust dressed in pastel red? Question not the reason for life. If we were all actors of the biggest play, We are but our own flowers thrown At the feet of the one who takes centre stage. TonFlyingHigh!12:07 AM *** |
Behind The Wheel; 
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