demonsonthemoon:

We could be pirates,
You and I.
You’ve already got the flag,
And I would bring the alcohol.
We could sail away together,
Embark on an old vessel
And look for adventure.

We could be pirates,
You and I.
You would name the ship, of course.
Something obvious.
Liberty maybe.
We would save people everywhere,
Free them from oppression,
Offer them a place in our world.

We could be pirates,
You and I.
We’ve already got the guns.
And like I said,
You have your flag,
And I would bring the alcohol.
During the storms,
I would miss the sun
And look at your dazzling hair.
On the heaviest nights,
We could drink wine on the deck,
Sing with all the power
Of the salted air
In reply to
A choir of seagulls.

We could be pirates,
You and I.
Away from France and her Revolutions,
Away from everything,
Away from death tonight.
Just you and I.

Please, Enjolras.
Tell me we could
Be pirates,
You and I.

demonsonthemoon:

(Inspired by the song Icarus, played by Bastille.)

The room is dark,
But there is a fire burning.
It almost feels like flying,
Sitting there with him, watching.

You put your empty bottle down,
And it doesn’t feel like much.
You think you’ll fall with just a touch,
His eyes on you; it isn’t bad as such.

He radiates light and warmth,
Your tongue is cynical and dark.
His hold on you is like teeth of a shark,
Forever on your soul, his ice-cold, ugly mark.

He is like Apollo,
Guiding the sun across the sky.
Freedom, his word, isn’t a lie.
If you touch him, you think you’ll die.

In a way, he makes you Icarus.
In his hand, a piece of chess.
He took your life, he took your mess;
He gave you wings until your death.

In a way, he makes you Icarus,
And you will go down in the fire.
You will jump upon the pyre
Screaming “He isn’t a liar!”.

I paint him on the walls,
Because I want to share his fiery passion
With the whole world.
That way, I might not burn.

I paint him on the walls,
Because I am an egoistic man
Who wants to be the only one
To know his every detail.

I take a gulp from my beer
And the sky breaks above my head
As he looks me in the eye.
Still I go on, burning myself on falling stars.

I walk the streets at dawn
And, hit by shy sunlight,
My art, myself, everything
Feels like his.

I listen to him
And to the beating of my heart.
I wish I could write the music of his words
Instead of just drawing the features of his face.