I believe city benches have their own memories.
Like if it all was connected to our minds.
Car blinkers would never lie,
receipts would never be hard to find,
and whatever love is will be forced to live
a homeless life,

our heads clear.
Nothing means too much,
our hands free, guided by fake machines,
following instincts.

Horrors from spirits,
ghosts that had no earthly life to begin with.
There are strings holding my arms and feet,
but they are attached to nothing.
So I am faulty for no reason,
haunted by things I don't believe in.

How far will I go,
a stowaway without a boat?
My shoes cut through concrete waves,
sails held taut by shoelace,
and the others won't even see me.
I'm just a body roaming streets;
bones under flesh under skin,
unearthly, translucent.

And I'll keep running until these streets forget me.
We're only strays.
Last edited by Martyr's Prayer at Aug 5, 2013,