Tombstone What To Write On Halloween Funny

Possesso remoto

steps sull'assito produce a sound family

different steps weighed by the same foot.

From the stage I look at the empty chairs, the torn edges of the tent

remains in the air and the buzz of low voices.

pull the strings from the cloth carefully dusted and I look at that theater, voices hidden in theatrical clothes that sit supported by time,

worn on textiles which lack the studs that attach to the wood .

It 'nice to weigh the small steps and leave the wood that grows to fill the air with its sound.

Fragments break under my feet, go down like blades of grass in a crisp lawn.

I look at the chair in the middle of the stage.

smile.

What was the pulpit of my monologue,

that he never saw the sign as a confessional of my knees, stretching his straw stained with the time on foot worm-eaten

and now that I sit down with hugs me back.

smile again ..

on that seat where my words come out.

My soul produces them, has no filters,

but now an image is reflected in "complete".

And just a word to silence those costumes that occupy the seats in the stalls, faces to hide behind the drapes of the gallery, to conceal the truth behind the acid of the words that have fallen on the stage, slipping on the wood.

Just a word .... We ....

and runs like a slide show pictures of my talk,

slip nooses su corde che afferrano il dolore,

fendono l'aria col loro tagliare ,come lazos di gauchos che catturano la preda.

Frammenti di oggetti riflettenti che illuminano di bagliore il pensiero che il danno accomuna i dannati.

Bagliori come fiammelle di candele nella tormenta del vento.

Deboli legami che si spezzano nel ledersi del tempo,senso di possesso remoto, di rivendicazioni di monarchie che hanno perso la loro nobiltà.

Immagini di spugne che assorbono il dolore altrui, sotto il peso del lancio di meteore ai confini di un mondo per entrare in un altro.

Ma essere pietrificati non produce movimento.La pietra, se non la lanci, è staticità pura e il vento che fischia tra i suoi spigoli la erode,scivola e se ne va.

E col vento se ne vanno le emozioni e già è difficile afferrare quel soffio,

impossibile prenderlo per la coda.

acid is attempting to corrode slides hidden intrigues and attempts to even hear the possession of break in its purity.

And purity is only a transparent veil, which does not hide it good, nor evil.

And cries that rise up seeking his illness to live in compassion.

Black is still below the waterfall, is rinsing your sponge.

not know compassion, I know pity, I love the challenge, face to face and not hidden behind masks of smiles weeping.

Call me whatever you want, believe what you want, so it's always been.

Why does not reflect anything but a mirror image of themselves or of what we believe to be.

why I loved and I was amazed the mirror clear water of a stream through the trees of the forest.

Because I saw my reflection U.S..

E...Nothingh else matter....