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Illusions of ghosts - passers by that passed away.
Car crash off a beaten path, crossed arms and closed eyes.
Converse through false mediums - distance juxtaposes connection.
Friendship lost in synthetic smiles - there reality bows without breaking stride.
Shoreline enveloped by red sky - we write our names in sand.
This second is framed in film- but film outlives love.
4 walls and a mattress cannot compare to this cyclical affair.
This is not freedom. This is not liberation.
That burning sensation, rising from guts to gutter is only stifled somewhat by the notion of freedom. But this is not freedom, this is not liberation.