Our lips - Bruised,
From the dangerous kisses you warned us against.
The titanic ache that surrounds our limbs, pulls us into the darkness, known as civilization.
A place where dreams are shot in the black,
Minds are programmed
And souls are banished to the continuous circle of the thick ebany, you call reality.
We may have those brusied lips, you dissaprove of so much,
But atleast we have basked in the glory of the angel kissed light.
Hearing a call as we stand lost,
stranded.
It is the light, calling us back to where we belong,
Back to where we are who we want to be,
Away from your control.
Back to rebellion.
- Chloé Davies, 1st September '08.
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