box of fake mirages love is a cliche and the rhymes are just a childish way to decompress your soul lets have sex and drink coffee in the cage of escaping cliches your mother was a bitch and she threw you in this world like an empty bottle which would never be filled with the empathy of your already dead words change the colour of your brown eyes let us smoke cigarettes and irritated ourselves with the weather while we wait for the bus to nowhere it’s ghosted and most probably not coming Infinity in a glass I am a poem hunter by the boiling gloomy sea like the heat that wonder in the cold of Kebili. I am sacred water splattered on a dirty mirror floor. Can you see the prisoned thunders while watching from above? As if I know forever that when you fall asleep the constant transformations render the notion of your own eternity. So you can shape my magic with your biased mind only if you dream the dream I dream at night.