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ashby-brownPoems
The thousandth breath Murmurs within mirrors Revealing the magic behind The red velvet curtain Seeing these ancestors with these jobs Just like ours Were just as miserable As we are now Some troubles don't change Exhaling to escape the questions Of fabrications bent for denial We are our own creations Watch as the movie reel turns Only for our selfish souls Chicken **** blood streaming in me These are the *** marked memories of The former man I see every now and again He smiles and I smile And I laugh and He laughs And we remember ourselves, together once, As we pause and look into the wind These nests They are heated from Underneath I trail along See the sights Breathe the air Eat the food Relish in the spirit of the towns Stranger's faces like the Bottom of scratched nickel's, clicking Their tongues for reasons of judgement They were born with Aching We see the night Watchmen **** the innocent With nightsticks The moon trickling its brilliant crying light Upon the damning landscape Painted with what we've learned to accept Ten years Eight minutes Three seconds We are beckoned To live frequent Belligerent lives Swinging twisted fists Screaming in silence Taking every drop of Blood to the bank Building up the fire For the long Cold Winter
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Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
Entering Winter
The thousandth breath Murmurs within mirrors Revealing the magic behind The red velvet curtain Seeing these ancestors with these jobs Just like ours Were just as miserable As we are now Some troubles don't change Exhaling to escape the questions Of fabrications bent for denial We are our own creations Watch as the movie reel turns Only for our selfish souls Chicken **** blood streaming in me These are the *** marked memories of The former man I see every now and again He smiles and I smile And I laugh and He laughs And we remember ourselves, together once, As we pause and look into the wind These nests They are heated from Underneath I trail along See the sights Breathe the air Eat the food Relish in the spirit of the towns Stranger's faces like the Bottom of scratched nickel's, clicking Their tongues for reasons of judgement They were born with Aching We see the night Watchmen **** the innocent With nightsticks The moon trickling its brilliant crying light Upon the damning landscape Painted with what we've learned to accept Ten years Eight minutes Three seconds We are beckoned To live frequent Belligerent lives Swinging twisted fists Screaming in silence Taking every drop of Blood to the bank Building up the fire For the long Cold Winter
Written by
ashby-brown
Nov 25, 2012
Nov 25, 2012 at 6:21 PM UTC
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