Imaad Wasif
The Hand Of The Imposter (Is The Promise Of My Own
The rain was pounding on my rooftop,Like an animal whipping through a cage.Now that you're gone there's no reason for me to stay on.Well I wanna go back home,Where I only know the less known's.I wanna break free from all these freaks.Come visit me in dreamland, and talk in a voice that's quick.The invisible man was the ghost of a woman and a famous rip-off artist.In the ancestral halls where the yellow wallpaper begs for my superstitions,I stood on the vents for long enough to blend the person I was then with who I am now.It's my shining hour,Ring out a joyful hymn for the prisoner on the high roads of the glow.And music of the spirits, a sub-style, astronomers hoax.One by one I've unhooked the stars and hid them in my coat-tails.Who will carry the torch?And who will inherit the throne?And all of the posers are inching closer, even the losers and clones.An organ rises, a distant wave somewhere on the periphery.My contempt for you is marching on, bittersweet and unrelenting.
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