Where is that lover in the black dress? One not of worldly dispair, one of makeup made from queen like caress.
Where is the string player? The dream slayer amongst devils of men, beyond cremation of friend's. For words art just meaning's of all seeming realities of cape fear! No desires ever met, for this one truest of death surely draweth near.
Like liquid to the needle, like wings on the Beatle, air conditioned rooms made from doom, I bleed out prophetic tears!!!
Images of ashy mascara currupts human time, queen of black, sits on back cracking fingers in glue like slime!!!
An actualiser, say adieu to morning glory faces. Painted on places to canvasses of darkened boutique....
The administrator,a navigator gather all on cloudish cobblestoned paths, much more than an assembly....
Babiche laces rambling to the dark souled queens Victorian skin!!!!
Axer thy taste towards her, the one owned by no one!!!! The one adored...
She whistles to heartbrakes destruction...... ( la,LA,LA,LA....she's the only one awake amongst those who snore....
©Brandon Nagley
©Prison poetry
©Lonesome poet's poetry
Poetry written in prison. Old poetry... Prison poetry..