Scarlett Letterman

There is this place, a virtual stigmata
Where my buried secrets are unleashed
Sparking a defiant hollowness within
Rusted corners of the mind having a feast
They all come to send clues , subliminal clues
To a world rendered so obdurate
A world that was once so clam and blue
There is this place, with the final message

Anthrax like prototype of hurricane faced emotions
Swallow this poison or crumble down to my inner demons
Like a wingless moth at the mercy of this wind
That blows against such futile redemption attempts within
On a fabric of timeless creation, this imaginary fence
The problem with fiction is - it always makes sense

There is this place, a stateless equilibrium
Oblivious to the most obvious ,logic has faded
The onset of this agonizing end
Rusted corners of the heart invaded
An eventual integration of every blazoned hints
Squandering the lifelong false entrenchments
This path of crafting new fingerprints
An unmatched pain is this counter-enlightenment

Cyanide like taste of my bloodstained emotions
This shower of poison killing the inner pretensions
Like a hairless ape , that seeks cover in this acidic rain
That falls on the skin of self-deceptions and fame
On a bridge of nameless between the past and present tense
The problem with fiction is - it always makes sense