to open your fist that's been too closed to
the outside wind, the sky's calls
but trust, the things unwanted don't arrive to you
they say ignorance is a bliss,
when the number of the corpses rises in
your backyard, when the sound of
the bombshell drowns people somewhere
you will tell your ignorance is a bliss
the newspapers don't speak ill of the dead
they detail everything to perfection
the fall, the breakage of the bones
never an ill adjective or an expectation
of what might have been rambling
inside a dead man's brain
but your ignorance is a bliss
when the leaves are filed away,
without your knowledge to the houses
you've destroyed with your desire to selfishness
you will know that this ignorance is a bliss
bone or a bane there are things you are not
supposed to know, nor guess, nor make use of
like the mysteries you seek a lifetime at exploring
the breaking of the elixir into main ingredients
the gathering of your belongings to cook the potion
add a little bliss, with ignorance
No comments:
Post a Comment