spoookypersonman

A chalk line sunset Outlines a world gone mad A gentle sun scorched to husks, Breathes through lungs made iron-clad. Weathervanes and pastel skies Where angels wouldn't dare An age-old metal scoured near And found in ill repair How croons a silver dove lost To a wolf trapped in a snare? A palette left to rot amongst A tree line aging fare A phrase lost years before to an Ageless culture's errs A solemn swing set Set ablaze, a child left with not. What men will not be killed Will be affluently bought, When grasses cannot grow Above a twisting tree trunk's knots, A crying piglet calmly killed With nose still stuff with sno

He who yearns for countenance will Only find despair, A lasting plan of hatred for A modern worker's heir, And breathing deftly every spark Of tainted corporate air A drifting soul, a sapling downed, A burning debonair Deftly lights a cigarette and swills A glass of wine, Liberating common sense he Dines among his swine Forgetting common practice There is irony to breath For those who work the hardest Work their very souls to death.

In muddy puddles where sewage collects, our ratty party takes a moment to pause. Under weak yellow lamp light in a poor sector of an old London street, our party holds high mighty wooden stakes, plastered with slogans and catchy phrases which are used to attempt to ward off evil. Some of our party have become bored with protest, and have decided instead to peruse the bushes for dead insects. There isn't much to complain about but years have left us deaf to facts, which are screamed regularly through flashing monitor and new refrigerators. I suppose one day, should a bomb fall on our heads, it would be best to write a letter detailing the be

I wish to move mountains with a heart's melody, To be beautiful is to be as pollen On gentle breezes, uncontaminated Sequestered away with beauty in One's pockets where gold is inconsequential, Soot will not smear aging markings, The harmony of a lonely heart melding with The flittering droplets of nectar in freefall, As ashes cast out to sea, A departing gift from the sailor who lives to sail, Sun's blistering light now a soft sheen. Arms spread, eyes wide, grass playing the emerald piano, Our careful sunset beds with Serendipity, My love will crumble rocks to dust, Scale molding stones meant to defend, Coat tarnished metal

Where dips the errant gull below such clouds of silver blue? Absent of awareness, ne'r so straight an arrow flew, What does it think of such envious emotions it creates? Most men would cast off clumsy limbs to experience such traits, And circling in carelessness as to mock man's burdened crawl, Ascending outwards from early morning mist its piercing call. Those on land dream most of servitude, And least of unknown heights, The workings of the souls beneath seem arrogantly trite. And still man's aging axiom, unequipped for winged flight.

Yearning chests reek of fire's kiss Exhaling outward hot breath, Shuddering souls bounce in Rhythm to heart-pulsing drums. Our bodies melding one by one, Tethered fingers pointed northward And laced tightly about a center pole. Naked bodies slick with sweat and Sticky fruit, squeezed above a pulsating crowd, Brush against Heaven's heaving chest. Naked feet stomp in sweat-covered mud, Bare toes sink slowly into stilt roots, Souls answer in heightened elation, Dancing beneath the monkey pod trees.

Avenues (as veins will do) collide in fabrication Necessary counteraction constructs a healthy nation Ability, ability (with proper discourse anyway), Can lead mild men to genius given proper reservation. And just uphill a nervous man, hands stained with the dead, Moves syringed appendages from the safety of his bed, Condemns, condemns the malformed men (Who sit in shackles, mourning); A play devoid of actors draws society's abhorring. Movement laced amidst a lonely devil's highest notes, An ancient gentle pacifist amid puppeteers who coax What ties? (What ties belong, for races skinned of traction?) Hark to ants above the water,