Rubbing his eyes,softly
he arises to face his next.
The mornings are cold
but the air is inviting.
He chooses to not spend time
admiring the beauty.
For he knows,there is a price.
His mind shifts
to the much imploring task of the day.
Study to get money,
spend to get prestige.
The residence,
with an up market address
is nothing but a mess of brick and glass.
It is his palace,his reign
over his subjects -
composed of degrading matter.
Everything for a use nothing with a use.
A tortured body,
a lifeless soul
he is the new walking dead.
In the glass coffin.
Until he leaves his shell.
It was a suicide or a ******
something we can never tell,
cause we too aspire to be the same
have our paths cross
one way or the other.
Apr 27, 2015
Apr 27, 2015 at 2:27 AM UTC
I am born out of
wax and wicker.
Used by the old
and young alike.
I have seen centuries go by.
Yet age has not affected me
I am the life of an evening
spent outside
At times I am the last
hope of pupils studying by the night.
I lighten 'nd brighten others life
as mine goes by
Till the last flame
I arise hope,
and then die.
Aug 19, 2014
Aug 19, 2014 at 11:55 PM UTC