Into the daze of reoccurring reality,
Into the marijuana haze,
Into heavy, hanging thoughts,
Into an empty, nicotine saturated tummy.
I used to have a home.
It’s strange to be alone.
It’s simple as an empty pillow.
Confusion is poison.
Pictures are the past, read by current mood swing.
Pictures are truth, within a mess of blurring memories.
Capture that moment,
Wrestle it into something tangible.
The Camera produces a fickle item.
A great Milestone,
A great Vertigo.
Below blue skies in Montreal,
Reflecting my affection.
Suffering through the unstoppable march of time
Affects the results.