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.