Sitting alone at the bar,

pretending it hasn’t gotten too far,

putting a smile for a friend

and absently wishing for the end.

It’s  a bitter-sweet clarity

that people around are a token of charity

and ghost living behind the eyelid

are the solitary reason you still breath.

Probably, the stories stuck in you brain

rendered the efforts of Universe useless,

and, truly, they try in vain

to infect a decadent soul with cuteness.

It’s used to the worlds beyond their kin

and, though, arrogance is a sin

it seems, like an indulgence worthy of pursuing

even if it leaves the real life in ruin

the fantasy kept me going for so many years

and these foolish tears won’t be able

to sway the mind of a storyteller.