The Dead Impressionist

We get so far and then we draw a blank
Like drunks in the tank we robbed the wrong bank
I have no idea of love and hate and fear
People think we’re sweet and true but they haven’t got a clue
Others think we are sorted but we are delicately poised
Majoring in guesswork juggling the noise

It doesn’t matter how long you stay together
The same old roadblocks appear round every corner
The heart grows empty and the head gets wrecked
We just pass in and out of whatever’s coming next
You can make of me whatever you wish
Cremate me like a medieval witch

A kiss is just a kiss is just a kiss it has no real use
A lie is just a lie is just a lie these are my dying roots
Transparency envelops me in its bittersweet cacophony
I sometimes think I’d be better off alive
But not very often

I am the dead impressionist

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