When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone
his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold
to feel not
to hear not
draws likeness to hell on earth
the leaves so brown and rusty
pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow
so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest
In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom
so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he
reaches home
Too much time he has been stuck in one place
he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race
to places others hate and where on one wants to be
so on his feet he flees
to the lands devoid of life
to camels
rocks
and the occasional bubbling cree
The shoes too tight the hurt his feet
they leave an aching, tingling feeling
They yearn to begat themselves of his heel
Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again
yet he still wears them
He knows they cause blisters
he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows
His wandering feet cannot remember the grass
the heat of asphalt
the agony of sharp glass
What is he to do?
his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe
to walk without?
absurd he laments
He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense
when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world
Another 10 years
another 10 he hopes
When his tromping up floors will finally pay off
Will that day ever come?
a bigger car?
a bigger house?
a bigger safe for all his guns?
He pleads
he wonders
blindly through life he blunders
hoping for when things will get better
he was raised not to wonder
raised not to dream
into suited glass himself he must ream
Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry
on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky
Too late to fix now
he wished he had realized younger
even fifteen years would have worked
Now he sits
old and broken
feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds
wishing someone would have spoken
Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe
His eyes fiery
heart masked with rage
he screams ever upward
bent with age
Broken Heartless
Mourning the loss of his life
Mar 21, 2012
Mar 21, 2012 at 7:58 PM UTC
When he was revealed to you to be naught but ash and stone
his eyes burnt dusty grey that of a thousand campfires grown cold
to feel not
to hear not
draws likeness to hell on earth
the leaves so brown and rusty
pay no attention to the girth of his unnoticed masochistic sorrow
so tomorrow may be better than the rest but in his roving endless mind he will find the greatest unrest
In all things he finds beauty and in all things he finds lonesome boredom
so that is why he roves in search of endless pleasures to quell the restlessness he finds when he
reaches home
Too much time he has been stuck in one place
he grows weary of the endless thoughtless race
to places others hate and where on one wants to be
so on his feet he flees
to the lands devoid of life
to camels
rocks
and the occasional bubbling cree
The shoes too tight the hurt his feet
they leave an aching, tingling feeling
They yearn to begat themselves of his heel
Plead with the sweat between his toes to never grace the skin of any man again
yet he still wears them
He knows they cause blisters
he knows that in those shoes an ever hardening, hateful fungus grows
His wandering feet cannot remember the grass
the heat of asphalt
the agony of sharp glass
What is he to do?
his entire life he has worn some sort of shoe
to walk without?
absurd he laments
He dreams of the day when he will spare no expense
when the shoe he dawns will be the finest in the world
Another 10 years
another 10 he hopes
When his tromping up floors will finally pay off
Will that day ever come?
a bigger car?
a bigger house?
a bigger safe for all his guns?
He pleads
he wonders
blindly through life he blunders
hoping for when things will get better
he was raised not to wonder
raised not to dream
into suited glass himself he must ream
Wanting not of the beautiful himself he will cry
on his deathbed he will see but lonely sky
Too late to fix now
he wished he had realized younger
even fifteen years would have worked
Now he sits
old and broken
feeding breadcrumbs to flightless birds
wishing someone would have spoken
Told him to cast off the shoe that left his foot choking and unable to breathe
His eyes fiery
heart masked with rage
he screams ever upward
bent with age
Broken Heartless
Mourning the loss of his life
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