It is the irony of my obssession
How we met so long ago in memory’s slow ebb
I can barely remember your voice
Over the overwhelming chorus of the dead
Those who joined us together
Seranding to us from their grooved cage
Transplated, digitalized, transformed
We meet on that same bastardized platform
You and I
Singing together to the songs of the dead
Is it irony that I now hear your voice
But I still can’t distinguish it from the rest
Hidden behind the fog of time and regret
Our songs burn and the irony becomes a mockery
Of You and I
Oceans of bonedust and cynicism separate us
Isn’t it ironic that I am rendered immobile
By you
My first enthusiastic cheerleader
My first pen pal
My first true enduring friend
Isn’t it ironic?
Pleas for genuine love
oh how it bled its way to so much hate
But it was enough to catch you in my web
Isn’t it ironic how the discovery of my deciet
How it did not distance you
The irony of my inverted obssession
How it protected and wounded me after your death