Director's Cut

The coats dangles in the wardrobe with flukes of her hair
Resting to be tried on, yet again when we meet at her lair
Awaiting to disguise her in the warmth of his care.

Enslaved beds surges the loneliness befalls,
Begrimed bodies rot in the clutches of emptiness,
To disregard the truth spoken by the mattress
That living is beautiful even in the cold.

The wave of shivers wakes up the giggles
The touch of the hands raises the mingles,
The daydreams in sunlight warms up the thoughts
Leads towards painting the velvety cloth
And the dance of penguins and mammoths.

Fiascoes played in times, go to the suburbs
Comedies warm up in the cold.
Mimes define the touch of slumbers
Dramas refine the kiss of concern.
To finish a scene extolled.