Expect miracles every minute
Not.
Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.
Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.
I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.
You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.
Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.
Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.
What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.
This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.
Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem
shall be my Epitaph?
Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.
Sep 22, 2013
Sep 22, 2013 at 7:30 AM UTC
Expect miracles every minute
Not.
Go away children if you want
Uplifting,
This is a dark adventure
Composition.
Gloomy the mood,
Gorgeous the day,
You have received my disclaimer,
Scurry away.
I scribe smoke that is uncontainable,
Smoke that suffocates, not for decoration.
You are the unrighteousness, not on the list,
Peekaboo voyeurs who read and dismiss.
Why I pen this or this.
Lost in the shuffling cards,
Luck is not inexhaustible,
Mine, bottled in the bin labelled,
The last recycling.
Dark is the blue sky,
White clouds just clothing to disguise
Morose is the vision,
Of eyes that have not seen a miracle
In decades of waiting.
Let us divorce today,
Find good cheer and company elsewhere.
From my finger these words fall freely,
No waiting, from me to you instantaneously.
What ails thee smoke scribe?
I have given and been taken, leeched and bled
and now wasted the last of my
Nine lives.
This is where I stand, edged and ledged,
Miracles are not shown to me anymore.
My quota, used, I'm not us-confused,
Cause I wrote the disclaimer,
The warnings, the risks, well understood.
Write of the good, the bad, of the
Beautiful that does not last,
Wonder if this is the poem
shall be my Epitaph?
Poetry craft, was the sword I breathed thru,
Unlike you, my motet is completed,
The music, the canon smoke, here, come, then
Gone.
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