Foresee the dance of the drunk pen,
On a white forgotten page,
And as the Indian ink has left its charm,
Through poetic swords of faith.
No, she said, to the young heart,
A sad dilemma song,
Drunk with broken words,
He bleed the crusade all along.
The blood has been painted,
Over the pages of art laid thorns,
As number he grew, he faded
Into the delusional walks and pavement songs.
The floors were carpeted red,
Like a heartbreak prom in lights,
While I laid drunk with my thoughts,
Like the dark soul of Broadway nights.
The black colour embracing,
Sweet sadistic vines of hope,
In the illest of fate, my heart sings
Like a mysterious misanthrope.
Jan 21, 2016
Jan 21, 2016 at 11:57 AM UTC
Foresee the dance of the drunk pen,
On a white forgotten page,
And as the Indian ink has left its charm,
Through poetic swords of faith.
No, she said, to the young heart,
A sad dilemma song,
Drunk with broken words,
He bleed the crusade all along.
The blood has been painted,
Over the pages of art laid thorns,
As number he grew, he faded
Into the delusional walks and pavement songs.
The floors were carpeted red,
Like a heartbreak prom in lights,
While I laid drunk with my thoughts,
Like the dark soul of Broadway nights.
The black colour embracing,
Sweet sadistic vines of hope,
In the illest of fate, my heart sings
Like a mysterious misanthrope.
