It's more like the anger,
The sun holds towards the oceans,
******* them dry,
Then slowly giving in.
Flickers of faceting fire,
Burning black the winter snow,
A crimson smelling attire,
Turning blemishes to bluish holes.
Just as the bullet replaced,
The thing beating in the cage,
Just as the blood replaced,
The thing breathing in the dust of age.
It's more like the greed,
A painting holds towards the notes,
What will it not give,
To be heard and written.
Bubbles of darkness at dawn,
Hunting gnats from freezing pyre,
An arrow head in the swarm,
A hum released to inquire,
Then the wind went by,
Snatching courage of bent knees away,
Then the wind went by,
Bursting dawn, dusking the song of prey.
It's more like the sleep
Seconds of seasons grew out of,
Under a canopy of camouflage,
Until it rained for a million years.
Nov 25, 2020
Nov 25, 2020 at 2:57 AM UTC
It's more like the anger,
The sun holds towards the oceans,
******* them dry,
Then slowly giving in.
Flickers of faceting fire,
Burning black the winter snow,
A crimson smelling attire,
Turning blemishes to bluish holes.
Just as the bullet replaced,
The thing beating in the cage,
Just as the blood replaced,
The thing breathing in the dust of age.
It's more like the greed,
A painting holds towards the notes,
What will it not give,
To be heard and written.
Bubbles of darkness at dawn,
Hunting gnats from freezing pyre,
An arrow head in the swarm,
A hum released to inquire,
Then the wind went by,
Snatching courage of bent knees away,
Then the wind went by,
Bursting dawn, dusking the song of prey.
It's more like the sleep
Seconds of seasons grew out of,
Under a canopy of camouflage,
Until it rained for a million years.
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