The victims of pleasures

Fog descends on the airport of my brain. And yet the sunlight, the air, the water are beautiful. But it leads from matter to visions. Fake Cinderella’s white powder can be a final, deadly orgy. Innocence— the thing that makes life a miracle. I chase it, I think I will arrive somewhere. Tears dripping with alcohol make feelings come and go. Pleasures on the small pillow— spread out, spread out, my lady! A spin of bliss on a swivel, then a bloodbath on the river of pleasure. Chasing lust, turning night into day— you watch it pull you down. And by the time you find the mistake, this game is over.