Where are they from,
Another Babylon bungalow,
Dreams sprinkled over their hot and sour soup,
Bitter sweet potential amongst particles of carbon.
Where is he now,
Surfing on a tablespoon through a cosmic tunnel of love,
Locking lips with his candy cane mistress,
Whispering sweet nothings into the ear of a shadow.
Where is she now,
Winding through the veins of an imaginary friend,
Sipping her gin from a copper cup,
Wondering where the dimmer switch is.
Where are they now,
Hand in hand talking through prosthetic plans,
Holding one another through a stifling snow storm,
Stuck together trying to find the corners.
Who were they meant to be,
The jesters or the jury,
Sprouting wings from their shoulders,
All for that numb rush.
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