January 16, 2012
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Wounded, like animals we crawl
Hurting, on all fours we sprawl
We hunt for reason and logic in a world full of woes
We sometimes knock twice on doors meant to be closed
Yet, we aimlessly defy gravity within our dreams
While in reality we digress on what true “love” means
We stay blinded most of our life, oblivious to what we feel
We search for truth behind consequence, the essence of what is real
We get so caught up in perfection, costly mistakes become much swifter
We lose sight of our destination, a mere nomad much rather a drifter
My life is still young, but it seems I have lived a thousand years
It seems I have come across, yet conquered a symphony of fears
A concerto of contemplations—a melody of melancholies
My life is one where I—I have always learned from my follies
If this universe be infinite, may we live on, but not render
Like a brilliant, bright star burning, being burnt to a cinder
May life be decadent to us, on the wake of our last hour
Life someday will open itself up to us, like a blooming flower
Our world is on fire, we burn in a circle of flames
The wind it does not blow out the fire, the wind it only maims
We are the pyro; we are that ever burning flame
We burn our life accordingly to what we will feel should change
We create and feed the fire, but sometimes extinguish the flame
We live on in life not by our memories, but how we made our name
So if I am the pyro, and life is nothing but my game
When will I distinguish between the fire and the flame?

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