Riding down the stoic streets,
Whilst the shy blossoms indigo,
before the deluge of spirits,
Start trampling and parading,
After the long pandering lat night,
Mind and body pounding like a
funeral drum.
A single procession hugs the horizon
and kisses the waves lapping on
forgotten shores,
Tossing and turning,
pulling head strings to remember,
gulping it all,
and put it down intrinsic,
with a nuance of perfection.
Nov 14, 2013
Nov 14, 2013 at 5:15 PM UTC
Riding down the stoic streets,
Whilst the shy blossoms indigo,
before the deluge of spirits,
Start trampling and parading,
After the long pandering lat night,
Mind and body pounding like a
funeral drum.
A single procession hugs the horizon
and kisses the waves lapping on
forgotten shores,
Tossing and turning,
pulling head strings to remember,
gulping it all,
and put it down intrinsic,
with a nuance of perfection.
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