Every dark thing, a turbulent mass of nothing;
every forgotten hope, a sanctimonious silence;
every lost dream, a memory of ******
meet me by the tree growing in the echoes of violence.
These old woes, heavy in your beaten head;
these philharmonic nightmares, blessed with ultraviolet light;
these sorry worries, pontificating to the ignorant;
meet me by the tree with leaves that shimmer out of sight.
Too many ugly voices, stretched thin in your clothing;
too many stranded friends, veiled in your weathered face;
too many judges, stealing notes from the executioners;
meet me by the tree that holds it all in place.
And you, lonely little girl,
far from the envy of a century,
sing the quiet war songs of your ancestry.
~~
o brokenhearted girl
why do you
cry yourself
to sleep
at night
you're already dead
let go
~~
Oct 5, 2020
Oct 5, 2020 at 4:24 PM UTC
Every dark thing, a turbulent mass of nothing;
every forgotten hope, a sanctimonious silence;
every lost dream, a memory of ******
meet me by the tree growing in the echoes of violence.
These old woes, heavy in your beaten head;
these philharmonic nightmares, blessed with ultraviolet light;
these sorry worries, pontificating to the ignorant;
meet me by the tree with leaves that shimmer out of sight.
Too many ugly voices, stretched thin in your clothing;
too many stranded friends, veiled in your weathered face;
too many judges, stealing notes from the executioners;
meet me by the tree that holds it all in place.
And you, lonely little girl,
far from the envy of a century,
sing the quiet war songs of your ancestry.
~~
o brokenhearted girl
why do you
cry yourself
to sleep
at night
you're already dead
let go
~~
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