P Oca - The Lighthouse of Sarah Téaunene lyrics
I held you, and gave you my lips
As the mists of endorphins consumed the room.
The summery, vibrant colors bloomed,
And sepia-toned disappointment had passed.
As hidden in your white gown
My desires laid impatiently.
The hills were blessed by sunlight,
That coated the world
In a loving, benevolent embrace and
The joyful faces of former enemies,
Brightened the ecstasy's space.
But as the blades bathed in warmth,
It began to yellow and pale in mellow
While the mountains slowly became demanding dates
That littered our work calendars.
You hushed me, and implored I not worry,
As illicit lust once again, brought you to my mouth.
Your kiss was asphyxiating,
But with every indulgence of your breath
- The room transformed.
From the saddening dream,
To a beautifully created reality I begged to exist.
My mind danced in the pools of dusk,
And you happily lead the way.
For with each step and sway
Brought us to the glad-loved day.
The rainbows were stolen from the skies
And the spectrums filled my eyes.
To a place where smiles were in abundance
And the embers of your body began to prance.
I held you closer, as I knew
The moment of perpetual tenderness
Was passing, with the burning of your dress.
A frock that lacked any hue.
My eyes drew crimson slowly,
As the minutes collected into piles,
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Hours strewn about the room in chaos,
And the smiles faded away.
The gifts of your presence,
Just remnants of sun-scorched flowers within my ashtray.
The ashy clouds of decay, delayed me to ruminate
And scatter my senses for your scent.
The apartment dulled under the lackadaisical
Lights of the city night.
I longed for your passions,
But all you are has gone with the wind.
My boss will condemn me, for I have sinned,
Against his schedule, are my transgressions.
The nullified life insisted
On stupid pens, stupid quotas,
Stupid calculators and stupid ties.
Small-talk at water coolers,
And glances from formerly attractive women.
Middle-aged, unfulfilled smiles.
Clutching nicotine blessings and other well-hid addictions,
The drink, false-wives, bad credit,
Much worse than our happy affliction.
These cubicles were prisons,
Which tortured the laborers with bright white lights.
And command the drag of pupils across screens,
Where I suffered from 9-5 at night.
Your fiery tongue,
Crowned me, sovereign of the third retina.
But these keys serve to lock,
The typed that a census predicted of my years.
It'll be 5 soon.
I dreaded the days of labor,
And longed for the days of your favor.
Where your forested kisses and warming sins,
Brings me closer to you, Sarah Téaunene.