context of the poem: this was randomly written on the way home. not everything always has to make sense la :) this is one of them that might not; at least not to some.
Hideous sores that cruelly fester.
Their romantic affection, irksome.
Paper hearts and plastic stars
Seem like vintage memories of teenhood.
I can nearly touch the Catalan sun
Yet all I hear is silence. Cruel silence.
Comfort seems only to rest
In the crevices of life's randomness.
The amphibious orchestra now sing,
Yet all I hear is silence. But
why the silence?
I don't know. Do I want to know?
Uncle T
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