"acacia" poems
naririnig mo ba?
ang bell ni manong na nagtitinda ng ice cream.
ang mga huni ng iba't ibang klase ng ibon.
ang mga harurot ng mga ikot jeep.
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga tawanan ng mga magkakaibigan
mga kuwentuhan, mga tanong at makabuluhang talakayan.
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga lapis at bolpen ng mga estudyante
na kumakayod sa mga papel:
husay
sa bawat ukit.
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga yapak ng mga iba't ibang klase ng Pilipino at talino
sa kalyeng binudburan ng mga dahong acacia
dangal
sa bawat apak at kumpas ng kamay,
sa bawat hinga.
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga salitang mapanlinlang, mapang-alipusta
ang mga sigaw sa sakit,
hiyaw sa hapdi, dahil sa
mga hampas at palo
ang mga tama ng mga kamao
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga iyak
ang mga hikbi ng mga kaibigan
para sa mga kapatid nilang nasaktan.
ang mga hagulgol ng mga magulang
na nawalan ng anak:
mga puso, mga pamilyang
hindi na buo.
wasak,
nasira na.
naririnig mo ba?
ang mga boses na nananawagan na
"tama na"
"utang na loob, itigil niyo na"
kasi
hanggang kailan pa
tutugtog ang ng paulit-ulit-ulit
ang sirang plaka ng karahasan
na patuloy na naririnig sa panahong ito
mula pa sa mga nagdaang dekada?
nakakalungkot, hindi, nakakasuklam
ang mga mapaminsalang kaganapan na nangyayari
sa ating mahal na pamantasan.
ang tawag sa atin ay mga
iskolar ng bayan,
para sa
bayan
pero paano tayo mabubuhay nang para sa iba
kung paminsan hindi nga makita ang
pagmamahal at respeto sa atin mismo,
mga kapwang magkaeskwela.
hahayaan na lang ba natin ang ating mga sarili
na magpadala sa indak ng
karumaldumal na kanta ng kalupitan?
hahayaan na lang ba ang mga isipan na matulog.
hahayaan na lang ba ang mga puso na magmanhid.
kailan pa?
tama na!
nabibingi na ang ating mga tenga.
nandiri. nagsasawa.
oras na para itigil ang pagtugtog ng mga nota.
oras na para tapusin ang karahasan.
oras na para talunin ang apatya at walang pagkabahala.
oras na para sa hustisya.
oras na para sa ating lahat,
estudyante man o hindi, may organisasyon man o wala
na tumayo, makilahok at umaksyon
para pahilumin ang sakit,
para itama ang mali.
oras na para sindihan ang liwanag dito sa diliman.
oras na para mabuhay ang pag-asa ng bayan.
Jul 5, 2015
Jul 5, 2015 at 7:47 AM UTC
Blue Monday
BY DIANE WAKOSKI
Blue of the heaps of beads poured into her breasts
and clacking together in her elbows;
blue of the silk
that covers lily-town at night;
blue of her teeth
that bite cold toast
and shatter on the streets;
blue of the dyed flower petals with gold stamens
hanging like tongues
over the fence of her dress
at the opera/opals clasped under her lips
and the moon breaking over her head a
gush of blood-red lizards.
Blue Monday. Monday at 3:00 and
Monday at 5. Monday at 7:30 and
Monday at 10:00. Monday passed under the rippling
California fountain. Monday alone
a shark in the cold blue waters.
You are dead: wound round like a paisley shawl.
I cannot shake you out of the sheets. Your name
is still wedged in every corner of the sofa.
Monday is the first of the week,
and I think of you all week.
I beg Monday not to come
so that I will not think of you
all week.
You paint my body blue. On the balcony
in the softy muddy night, you paint me
with bat wings and the crystal
the crystal
the crystal
the crystal in your arm cuts away
the night, folds back ebony whale skin
and my face, the blue of new rifles,
and my neck, the blue of Egypt,
and my ******* the blue of sand,
and my arms, bass-blue,
and my stomach, arsenic;
there is electricity dripping from me like cream;
there is love dripping from me I cannot use—like acacia or
jacaranda—fallen blue and gold flowers, crushed into the street.
Love passed me in a blue business suit
and fedora.
His glass cane, hollow and filled with
sharks and whales ...
He wore black
patent leather shoes
and had a mustache. His hair was so black
it was almost blue.
“Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
“Mr. Love,” I said.
“I beg your pardon,” he said.
So I saw there was no use bothering him on the street
Love passed me on the street in a blue
business suit. He was a banker
I could tell.
So blue trains rush by in my sleep.
Blue herons fly overhead.
Blue paint cracks in my
arteries and sends titanium
floating into my bones.
Blue liquid pours down
my poisoned throat and blue veins
rip open my breast. Blue daggers tip
and are juggled on my palms.
Blue death lives in my fingernails.
If I could sing one last song
with water bubbling through my lips
I would sing with my throat torn open,
the blue jugular spouting that black shadow pulse,
and on my lips
I would balance volcanic rock
emptied out of my veins. At last
my children strained out
of my body. At last my blood
solidified and tumbling into the ocean.
It is blue.
It is blue.
It is blue.
Apr 13, 2015
Apr 13, 2015 at 7:31 AM UTC
i could be that girl
whose voice is low and melodic
and coats your mouth with
acacia honey
whose eyes are the color
and depth of
midnight
whose presence is thick like
new york summers
rosy like
los angeles in early spring
if i braid flowers into my hair
if i write enough poems
if i learn to show the skin of my essence
but remain an abyss—
i will stop making art
when i become it
Sep 17, 2018
Sep 17, 2018 at 9:39 PM UTC
Bukas
Samahan mo ako
Pagsapit ng takip-silim,
Kung saan nag-aagawan ang liwanag at dilim
At ang langit na bughaw ay magliliyab ng pula
Tapos kukupas sa mga bituin.
Samahan mo ako
Sa tabi ng kalsada
Kaharap ng mga naglalarong bata
Sa ilalim ng mga nagbubulaklak na punong acacia
At lasapin natin ang malamig na hangin
Na humahaplos sa atin ng kay lambing.
Halika,
Balik tanawin nating ang nakaraan
At mangarap ng mas malaki pa
Para sa kinabukasan.
Wala nang lihim na itatago,
Walang kahinaan na ikakahiya.
*Ikaw ay ngingiti.
Ako ay tatawa.*
Bukas.
Jan 29, 2014
Jan 29, 2014 at 10:38 PM UTC
Alone into Rainy, twist a Dai clove, pattering rain, wind lingering foot Yuhuan, lengthy dark gray rain curtain hung plaintive, oblique rain splashes dusty track marks, those rainy season, those day's dependent, those nostalgic every night in this late spring rain, scraping completed my cold lonely, rain turned into a long and narrow alley Resentment, thwarted flows into atria, cool diffuse through the apex. Do not turn around in your mind of the day, I count, chatter thoughts of you, and for your Ai resentment, Acacia entanglement, filled Chu pain, no know what to say, but unfortunately does not help, once the owner of the rain falling, once clouds drifting sea oath, I never touched your warmth, sigh Lane is a rain: Wife - Why shallow edge. (yiwu export)
Came alone intersection, waving a monotonous right hand, held in our left vague shadow, the breakdown of the raindrops bounce dust, Red rain, your shadows, swaying like a willow in the rain erratic, like a hard rain exhibition wings flutter Ling heavy, like rain, pedestrians hurry hurry ...... once Pengguo footprints Bingqing appearance of your hands, had led a faint in the rain blessings Juyi Peng broken tile rain dream, comfort our goodbyes, we pay homage to the past. Acacia is the way the dust, whisk Yang is confusion of resentment, lost pain.
This year's rainy season to refresh my mind, I view Acacia dream dreams, the pain, resentment cut into the rain, stuck into the soil; tears into the hands of deep stone, sank; to have a bunch of rendering painful injury worry text buried in the memory, so that resentment heart of the sea to swim, let the pain out of the bone marrow, dusty track once marks, wound treatment desolate, firmly stand in Kuwata, enterprises no longer envy sea water. (yiwu export agent)
Let love and hate, love and hatred, grace and resentment, thinking and pain in the rainy season falling, drifting in the rainy season. I left alone a pool of water, the flow of soulful call. (Yiwu buying agent)
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 5:03 AM UTC
In my Thirty-Fifth Year I juiced this Remark
The Crisque-Plaque Hotel named after a Tree
Sturdy, of Signage enhance the Grade's Bark
Wishing all else their Best Service was Free
If not the Years to Good Degree advance:
Fruits, Pasta, Meat, Veggies and Japanese
Mix the fricasee to match that of France
And serve it on a Platter, if you please
Only if the Staff were shy; But informed
How noted the needs of their Clients were
One Gesture made, took the Meaning lost cause
Pour some polished Suggestions done on here.
Thirty-Five Candles blown, all without Flame
It was still my Best Day; All just the same.
Mar 8, 2013
Mar 8, 2013 at 1:09 AM UTC
what do i have to say
to keep the zebra stripes
from falling off and leaving only white?
what do i have to do
to keep the herd of restless rhino
from stampeding you?
what do i have to be
to get the giraffe to come and eat
from our acacia tree?
peace is less than me
and more than you
but we are almost free
Jul 16, 2013
Jul 16, 2013 at 1:37 PM UTC
Love, camaraderie and poetry
You always did love it here.
HOW DO YOU save a poem as a DRAFT on here anymore? Help! I've been gone for a year and the save as draft button is gone?
Acacia tree sunsets over Lake Turkana
Yes, you always did love it here
Drawing Crocodiles on my wheel
The mouse in your hoodie
The hurt
the homeless
and all those people
you always did love it here.
Mar 3, 2015
Mar 3, 2015 at 1:26 PM UTC
acacia
"i know that, i know that
what's mine will find me"
(1)
<>
sigh...
(forgive my intrusion)
not necessarily-
for too many, we have to invent, create and
forever to be on the lookout for to
find what we need,
forgive and then, not begrudge the time it may take,
finally
then to make it ours,
for
that's when the work begins,
sometimes it takes a forever
to know how to define, create
find, a forevermore
<nml>
exactly 5:00am
Wed Sep 10
in the dark, dark sunroom
Sep 10, 2025
Sep 10, 2025 at 4:05 PM UTC
Around me architectural mastery:
sycamores, embankments, enduring ionic pillars.
I round a walkway bordered by trees,
enamel thawing, gliding off their low leaves.
Beneath the late-May’s pounding sun,
through the glittered trees’ reaches,
a gazebo crackles into sight.
Children in their prime, sunbathers, a wistful portraitist
encircle it carelessly:
a leisured chimney; the billows of life.
The foliage escapes into the river,
purplish, palpitating, cyclic creases
receive the dewy notes.
Kayaks licking acacia-gum-edged
ripples sputter and slip
through reverberations
of leveled white-water terraces.
Blackcurrants in clotted cream
slide on the plush lips of a young passerby.
The 8 above a doorway
dances motionless, silent in my periphery;
“Nicolas Cage just sold the spot”
pops from unknown lungs
inside the Circus crowd.
Unacknowledged, half-proud
hands built the Roman baths
alone, closed-in by such grace,
forgotten, then as now.
I wander these ancestral lanes
more or less alone, the same.
Jul 4, 2012
Jul 4, 2012 at 7:55 AM UTC
atop
that golden haystack
mounted on an unwieldy bullock cart
you wished we had......
a regret of a million lifetimes!
every time
your plucky smile flashes
in the sacred space between brows,
i see a wish fulfilling acacia tree
nymphalid butterflies flutter in my gut
and rapid clips of lifetimes past
neatly edited,
projected as movie trailers
your deathlike silence
has quietly become my universe,
as i pen in moon-like solitude
memoirs of an unrequited love
© 2019
Aug 3, 2019
Aug 3, 2019 at 11:14 AM UTC
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune;
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, 'There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play.'
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, 'The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lord-lover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine,' so I sware to the rose,
'For ever and ever, mine.'
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewel-print of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls.
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, 'She is near, she is near;'
And the white rose weeps, 'She is late;'
The larkspur listens, 'I hear, I hear;'
And the lily whispers, 'I wait.'
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
3.2k
veiled behind the barbs of acacia
the river bathes in the lazy sun
she's a thousand years or more
but knocks my heart's door
like a flirtatious teen
*come deflower me
bare me in your poetry
wear me on your skin*
soon she would be lost to the sky
leaving on the banks echoes of her lust
i pause for a piece of her
before my dream turns to dust!
Jun 4, 2015
Jun 4, 2015 at 1:00 AM UTC
1976:
black boy, black boy,
we shot you --
nothing left
in your small, shiny black shoes;
your tidy school uniform
2013:
white boy, white boy,
we will not shoot you --
nothing right
in your big, broken black shoes;
your untidy school-form --
instead, we will not teach you
white boy, we will not teach you:
English is for black schools --
Madiba, Madiba:
the jacarandas of Pretoria are dying;
the mimosas in the bushveld
have taken the Acacia tree's name
and beneath the soil,
the roots of South Africa are still
growing, exactly the same?
Dec 8, 2013
Dec 8, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
A BIRTH
Twelve hours in velvet dark
I waited for your shaft
to penetrate my channel of desire
birthing purity and long lashes
You came without a doubt
Acacia branches making curtains
their feet digging deep for
the numinosity of life
Wisdom of Time feeding a
*********** into pink moistness
Deeply hidden thorns created
a serpent circle of protection
Descent spiralled into eardrums
eyeballs, silently swirling light
dividing with space, minerals
unfolding with Earth’s rhythm
Her sister shed joyful tears
for her soft arched feet
whilst ***** petals fell
for dainty fingers curling
As missionary I buried a sticky
cord beneath Acacia
Understood the elixir of truth and
your departure into shadows
©GhairoDanielsPoetry1997
Sep 14, 2025
Sep 14, 2025 at 4:55 AM UTC
"There where that ray touches the plain
And the shadows escape as if they really ran,
Warsaw stands, open from all sides,
A city not very old but quite famous.
"Farther, where strings of rain hang from a little cloud,
Under the hills with an acacia grove
Is Prague. Above it, a marvelous castle
Shored against a slope in accordance with old rules.
"What divides this land with white foam
Is the Alps. The black means fir forests.
Beyond them, bathing in the yellow sun
Italy lies, like a deep-blue dish.
"Among the many fine cities that are there
You will recogni2e Rome, Christendom's capital,
By those round roofs on the church
Called the Basilica of Saint Peter.
"And there, to the north, beyond a bay,
Where a level bluish mist moves in waves,
Paris tries to keep pace with its tower
And reins in its herd of bridges.
"Also other cities accompany Paris,
They are adorned with glass, arrayed in iron,
But for today that would be too much,
I'll tell the rest another time
2.4k
On the African savannah,
The mission brief had been simple.
Go in and find a Warthog.
The Americans had gone in and nuked the place,
Then claimed there had been none to begin with.
The Israelis against strong,
Local advice,
Had sent in Mossad,
Undercover.
-why go in, looking like food,
the lions had a field day-
The Africans, however,
Had not reported by nightfall,
So at daybreak a search party was launched.
They found three Kenyans surrounding a giraffe,
Spread-eagled securely to an Acacia tree.
The Sergeant-at-arms was taking notes,
Whilst his Officers flogged,
The poor thing screaming,
“Confess you’re a Warthog, confess!”
Jul 24, 2012
Jul 24, 2012 at 2:42 AM UTC
In a place
where trees caress heaven's cheeks
where winds whisper wistfully,
sharing their secrets to those who care to listen...
In a place
where sun and moon meet, however fleeting,
where death and birth collide,
giving way to the cycle of life
There is She.
the Diwata
enchanting ebony tresses amidst fairest skin
unspeakable beauty manifested
with a voice that could melt the sun
guardian spirit of nature
There she resides quietly in the trees,
~the Narra, the Acacia, the Balete
a blessing for those who care for nature
yet wrath and curse await those who abuse it
You may hear her song echo in the breeze,
her sweet breath to cool the rivers,
her teardrops mingling with the dew...
Next time you take a nature's walk,
stop, listen and just feel---
close your eyes and when you get that tell-tale chill
through your bones, through your soul,
know that she is there,
watching your every move---
the Diwata
Sep 27, 2011
Sep 27, 2011 at 2:48 PM UTC
My own dear love, he is strong and bold
And he cares not what comes after.
His words ring sweet as a chime of gold,
And his eyes are lit with laughter.
He is jubilant as a flag unfurled--
Oh, a girl, she'd not forget him.
My own true love, he is all my world,--
And I wish I'd never met him.
My love, he's mad, and my love, he's fleet,
And a wild young wood-thing bore him!
The ways are fair to his roaming feet,
And the skies are sunlit for him.
As sharply sweet to my heart he seems
As the fragrance of acacia.
My own dear love, he is all my dreams--
And I wish he were in Asia.
My love runs by like a day in June,
And he makes no friends of sorrows.
He'll tread his galloping rigadoon
In the pathway of the morrows.
He'll live his days where the sunbeams start,
Nor could storm or wind uproot him.
My own dear love, he is all my heart--
And I wish somebody'd shoot him.
2k
Quaint Acacia tree forest:
****** unblemished as it was
when my grandparents first met here-
mountain school.
The chapel beside the administration
office
is locked.
But just as holy are the dark coal
mountain
rocks
that sweetly fell from God's hands before
Jesus set his feet here.
He didn't.
This place is lovely nonetheless.
Jul 7, 2015
Jul 7, 2015 at 1:44 PM UTC
The golden tinge of sun pierced the cloud
But the mangrove held onto its dark cloak
She hid somewhere between the light and shadow
When from one irresistible daze I awoke.
Unbeknownst flamed up the rocks salt white
Dry since the waves receded beyond the *******
A cold loneliness crept up in the spell broken light
As if eons had passed without the sight of her.
Then one seagull’s spriteful fish dream shriek
Motioned me up from the vacuous stupor
Buzzed each sand grain all years’ unborn speak
Was to be seized this moment and tell her.
The wind having carried the voice of her name
Spread it across the mangrove and far
From the receding waves rose a rising flame
When in her hug beneath an acacia I found her.
Mar 24, 2014
Mar 24, 2014 at 3:21 AM UTC
when i last met her
her ******* were bursting with seeds
her thighs plump as stems of plantain
and when in the December sun
she dried her hair behind the acacia
i dreamed of lying with her on the grass
drunk in the moaning song from her navel
till the evening drove us cold and old
and darkness stole her flesh from my eyes
and it's almost December again
as she walks with my hands in her
along the field after crop
just tugging my hand once to stop
delicately drawing from her breast
an Agfa snap of two unreal people
in the most unlikely place
looking awestruck into the lens
passing into the evening light
before leaving me halfway
of her cottage and a home.
Nov 29, 2016
Nov 29, 2016 at 5:54 AM UTC
FIVE-AND-TWENTY years have gone
Since old William pollexfen
Laid his strong bones down in death
By his wife Elizabeth
In the grey stone tomb he made.
And after twenty years they laid
In that tomb by him and her
His son George, the astrologer;
And Masons drove from miles away
To scatter the Acacia spray
Upon a melancholy man
Who had ended where his breath began.
Many a son and daughter lies
Far from the customary skies,
The Mall and Eades's grammar school,
In London or in Liverpool;
But where is laid the sailor John
That so many lands had known,
Quiet lands or unquiet seas
Where the Indians trade or Japanese?
He never found his rest ashore,
Moping for one voyage more.
Where have they laid the sailor John?
And yesterday the youngest son,
A humorous, unambitious man,
Was buried near the astrologer,
Yesterday in the tenth year
Since he who had been contented long.
A nobody in a great throng,
Decided he would journey home,
Now that his fiftieth year had come,
And "Mr. Alfred' be again
Upon the lips of common men
Who carried in their memory
His childhood and his family.
At all these death-beds women heard
A visionary white sea-bird
Lamenting that a man should die;
And with that cry I have raised my cry.
1.7k
Come into the garden, Maud,
For the black bat, Night, has flown,
Come into the garden, Maud,
I am here at the gate alone;
And the woodbine spices are wafted abroad,
And the musk of the roses blown.
For a breeze of morning moves,
And the planet of Love is on high,
Beginning to faint in the light that she loves
On a bed of daffodil sky,
To faint in the light of the sun she loves,
To faint in his light, and to die.
All night have the roses heard
The flute, violin, bassoon;
All night has the casement jessamine stirr'd
To the dancers dancing in tune:
Till a silence fell with the waking bird,
And a hush with the setting moon.
I said to the lily, "There is but one
With whom she has heart to be gay.
When will the dancers leave her alone?
She is weary of dance and play."
Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to the rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone
The last wheel echoes away.
I said to the rose, "The brief night goes
In babble and revel and wine.
O young lordlover, what sighs are those
For one that will never be thine?
But mine, but mine," so I sware to the rose,
"For ever and ever, mine."
And the soul of the rose went into my blood,
As the music clash'd in the hall;
And long by the garden lake I stood,
For I heard your rivulet fall
From the lake to the meadow and on to the wood,
Our wood, that is dearer than all;
From the meadow your walks have left so sweet
That whenever a March-wind sighs
He sets the jewelprint of your feet
In violets blue as your eyes,
To the woody hollows in which we meet
And the valleys of Paradise.
The slender acacia would not shake
One long milk-bloom on the tree;
The white lake-blossom fell into the lake,
As the pimpernel dozed on the lea;
But the rose was awake all night for your sake,
Knowing your promise to me;
The lilies and roses were all awake,
They sigh'd for the dawn and thee.
Queen rose of the rosebud garden of girls,
Come hither, the dances are done,
In gloss of satin and glimmer of pearls,
Queen lily and rose in one;
Shine out, little head, sunning over with curls,
To the flowers, and be their sun.
There has fallen a splendid tear
From the passion-flower at the gate.
She is coming, my dove, my dear;
She is coming, my life, my fate;
The red rose cries, "She is near, she is near;"
And the white rose weeps, "She is late;"
The larkspur listens, "I hear, I hear;"
And the lily whispers, "I wait."
She is coming, my own, my sweet;
Were it ever so airy a tread,
My heart would hear her and beat,
Were it earth in an earthy bed;
My dust would hear her and beat,
Had I lain for a century dead;
Would start and tremble under her feet,
And blossom in purple and red.
1.6k
You blasted into this world running free to be yourself.
You needed no sanctuary to hide away from this strange world.
Please, remember tomorrow for we will all be sad,
because you're no longer with us. You've traveled to another life.
You were like a prodigal son, but not one of the drifters.
Not another *children of the ****** invaders to this realm.
Yet life wasn't easy, it trapped you in an iron maiden,
thus you became the prisoner by the number of the beast.
Now you're gone, but it wasn't the killers who took you.
No murders in the rue Morgue put you in your own purgatory.
Don't think of this as an innocent exile or a total eclipse.
22 Acacia avenue awaits for his favorite client.
No need to run to the hills.
There is no twilight zone.
You lived by your true self
so hallowed be thy name.
Mar 13, 2013
Mar 13, 2013 at 2:29 PM UTC