Perfect Smiles Are No More

Perfect Smiles Are No More








There we go, Wasteland!
Loving not really, but the thing
—that only makes us happy.


The same cycle goes, without
saying, about escapist tendencies.


Loving thing, tender caresses
—Lacanian fantasies.


Nevermind the stars, our true nature.
Their influences are just imaginary.


See, now, our indwellings, barren abodes—yet endlessly


We smile at the Night Sky, and into the day

—love that's only meant for a daydream.