The Sail Ship between Blue and Gray

Sunset sky reflected on the tip of the pen;
Sheets becomes chromed, cutting like glass razors;
Layers of bordeaux lights opening into layers of memories;
Petals within petals within petals, whirling;
Feeling like home at the center of a paradox;
Reversed skyscrapers hanging from the nebulous ceiling;
Arranged in concentric circles, every window as a distinct thought;
Earphones in, volume up: melodies forming pearly stripes;
They run on time melting into fluorescent silhouettes of long forgotten people;
I can see their glowing souls, floating over bleeding globes;
Echoes of their voices turning into incandescent waves, sliding on the walls;
Converging into my chromed sheets, so the cycle can starts once again;
Under an opulence of illusions, like swarms of fireflies scattering lights under the ocean;

Teardrops find their way towards the throat;
Descending from the heaven we created in our heads;

Flex the muscles, empty smiles;
With a drink in my hand and a story between my fingers;
Avoiding faces reflected on empty glass;
Oversimplified complications
Fountains of yearnings, riassumed in epigrams;

Mental sanity is an excellent cover, but what if it collapses?
Are you trying to get lost, or trying to be found?
Your innermost thoughts appear projected on the black ceiling:

The dead branches looks like skeletons hands scratching the sky;
And the worms sing proverbs of dead days lost in the shadow of our lives;
The smell of those rooms moves paintings of inconceivable truths;
The cult is alive and creeps through the corridors;
We march in procession to the nothingness with a dull, hallucinated gaze;
From 3 to 1 in 2 and 4, I am you in another life;
We were one long ago, before the earth stole our souls;
We ponder things lost between time and this hollow space. We ponder what we can't replace;
But who am I kidding? I'm so afraid;
One missing frame, forever one Enclave.

Seven oceans, seven sins;
Seven nightmares to swim within;
And I'm still here, simply lost at sea;

Where the asphalt ends and this night begins,
Where the city plummets on a precipice;
Machinery of defunct industries and intertwined digital ghosts, whisper in chorus;
The disperate escape of a snake from a swan corpse;
This is why I enjoy the dreadful feeling of being alone;
A radiography of what could have been;
A dawn sky trapped and drip-feeded into my carnal vessel;
And I'm still small here of a small nature.