Behind chirps, spouts of laughter, giggles, words, restlessness.
Inside hatred, there is some gaiety, some valuable quest, some real spirit
on which acid spreads.
Bows bound around gifts, gifted along with roses, black
when unwrapped, reveal another redundant dream,
green apples roll down a clean old street; the street holds stories
These apples get wrapped in these, independently, to later become people,
who have something to say; they shall get eaten before they turn stale.
To the good times, let us offer some gratitude, let us wrap each other in felony,
to celebrate.
Shringi
17 February 2012
Yes, how ungrateful we have been :)
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