| Written: OCT 11, 2003 |
Just think,
Somewhere out there
Someone else is creating
Figments of me:
To haunt, intrigue and
War against.
Smoking their oxygen
In leisure as so much herb.
We could have been them,
Maybe we are them.
And breathing what we breath
Has made us this.
Messed up and unknowing;
Aliens lost in their
Euphoric holiday.
