Planet of the thought

The core of the thought has become an egg, warped and twisted alone in itself, by itself. Like a trap in time, lost in the high grass, exiled in the ferocity of the wind; it forgot to dream, forgot about desires. Where were all those things which made it what it really was, a planet on its own?

Surrounded by an inconceivable world left in atrophy, with ground made out of hot tar; created solely to keep him chained to the ground never allowing him to experience those heights for which he dreamed sometime in the past. As if he was a lion with a lost leg and frightened pride. A reminder that anyone can sleep, anyone can dream… blessings forbidden only to him; never to dream, at least never again.

Airplanes are losing the altitude, and from the thunders you can’t see the Sun. Ships are lost among the huge waves; and the water is never bright, just blurring into gray. The image in the mirror speaks while the man stands in silence, then again… the man doesn’t even exist anymore.

Bring me a wrath, take me to ruin... quake the essence in me, destroy the very fabric of... ME!

I'm yours;)