"flittering" poems
Flittering, fluttering, dancing in their flight
Glittering like emeralds throughout the night
The dance begins before sunset and goes on by the light of the moon
It is a ritual we hope won't end soon
In May every lightning bug gets excited
To this dance every firefly is invited
The dance begins when they hover in the air
Then one by one turn on their light for flair
They spin, dip, and dive
While others are continuing to arrive
The lightning bugs continue on through the night
Showing off their little lanterns of light
Finally, they come to a close
After this long dance, a firefly has to doze
Like candles being blown out, the green flashes of light are no more
But not to worry, they will continue for weeks until the final encore
May 29, 2015
May 29, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
Shankar smiled as the waves crashed
To the drop of the bass we were
Alive and breathing subconsciously
Losing all air to the cry of peculiar felines
And there existed a flittering longing
Once common perception returned.
My hair was threaded gold
Beneath your fingertips.
Jun 16, 2012
Jun 16, 2012 at 4:30 PM UTC
It wasnt long before the baluster flapped somewhere in the distance and Icarus knew how old he had been on the day of his birth. For whatever reason, the snow capped cappuccinos he had willfully destroyed in a heated debate on fiscal policy had him beginning again. Why was there always a beginning where there was an end? Fur traders used to circumnavigate the Hudson's Bay of his humanity when he was young, sharing drinks and fire water whiskey like it was all an H2O ready for the soul search. Sadly, many ended up in Hitlers concentration camps weeks after the **** invasion of Poland, about a month or so before the fall of the Roman Empire. Beginning with a last breath, Icarus strode off the plank with a new-found confidence unnatural in his niceties of long past. It was as if 1 minute and 35 seconds was enough to dish a clamouring populace onto the dinner table before the fat step-father gleefully orders
everyone to 'dig in, everyone!'
Cancelling everyone's appointment with Dr. Pardon meant the gaining of a key participatory certificate in El Dorado, and the gold lingering in dusty sun-beams was sifted for the taking. Some got rich, the rest got miserable. The rest used to imagine the gold, staring at ivory towers and lottery tickets, apple cores lording over old public servant applications near the city hall drain pipes as the modern world collapsed into a flash-mob image of Ronald Reagan.
Icarus was a sliver of duskish light flittering a top distant windowsills, all cupped in an intentional light because happiness was as possible as sadness. Not that considering either would make you either.
Icarus slept as his wings incinerated at the first glimpse of the solar system. He now believed every single proverb the old ***** slumbers had whispered their children as they woke to find themselves adults.
In the beginning he found the beginning beginning again. It made him feel however you wish. Both were just as possible. Both were just as much a jazz configuration as a smooth and easy guitar rift.
Ahha!
Apr 1, 2013
Apr 1, 2013 at 5:31 PM UTC
ivory keys
seek the touch
of long-dead
fingertips
fluttering
flittering
elegant keystrokes
gracefully enchanted
bittersweet tunes
staccato lilts
incandescent harmonies
melancholy melodies
every heartbreaking keystroke
drips
with mournful,
dismal sadness
each life is a
unique song;
each has their own,
single chorus
some are a great crescendo;
some a lullaby;
some are a lonely tune;
some barely even brush the keys
each journey,
though,
has white keys of joy
and black keys of sorrow
*but
even the
black keys
make music*
Aug 16, 2015
Aug 16, 2015 at 8:51 PM UTC
Hey Danny, I droped it twice but this one is just as nice
On the fly a small hummingbird on flittering wings just dusting the room
With dann dust and goodwill.
A quiver filled with curative pin point healing
She is wheeling and dealing
Danielle I presume is the full story.
Acufeel good. Feelgood ancient curative
Sent from the far east.
Miniature
Magic whipping about in sea blue scrubs
All good news .
Never gave me the bluesy tude.
Cool runnings miss danny.
Nuff respect.
A short poem for a big spirit. In. Small spirit
Country.
Seek and ye shall find I am inclined to believe
She has a good vibe.
Cool runnings hummingbird.
See you at the water cooler
Jan 16, 2013
Jan 16, 2013 at 5:56 PM UTC
The glowing jacinth sun was just beginning its descent,
casting long, flittering shadows on horse and rider alike.
Although the horse was young, he walked
with an air of importance,
like a racer entering the track.
As the playful breeze rustled the viridian leaves,
his muscles tensed.
He perked up like a toy soldier,
watching the purpling sky with wary eyes,
the amaranthine clouds reflected in those deep sable orbs.
As he trotted about like a fairy,
his russet coat shone vibrantly in the setting sun,
a body of twinkling rubies set in amber.
The sprite padded softly on the ground
with the delicate nature of a hummingbird,
he had a stride like a river of sweet milk and honey.
The chestnut dreamer skipped across the ground
like notes across a page,
his song light and airy.
he tiptoed and pirouetted,
his three pearly stockings dancing
like the melodious keys of a piano.
Her cinnabar savior bounded over the fences
like a prancing stag,
and his dainty ears pricked forward
as his chocolate-brown eyes fixed on the obstacle ahead.
As he jumped, he lit up with a bravery
that could have been felt all throughout the arena.
Had the two not been alone,
the entrancing sight would have been easily able to charm his way
into the hearts of even the stoniest of onlookers.
With a gleeful snort,
the sunny gelding seemed to fill the air
with good-natured laughter.
The rider reached down to give him a pat,
and he brightened at her touch,
the pet like a kiss on his glossy ginger neck.
And as the last of the daylight filtered away
into the velvety mazarine sky,
his neck stretched down and his walk slowed.
Satisfied with their ride, the two made their way back inside,
surrounding by the growing darkness.
Oct 30, 2013
Oct 30, 2013 at 9:42 AM UTC
Love isn’t a feeling
Love isn’t an action
Love isn’t a person
Love is a place.
It’s the cave of wonders
It’s a hospital room filled with new life, balloons, and flowers
It’s an altar in a church in the countryside of a town unknown
while a man pleads for the soul you’re not ready to give.
It’s a tent pitched next to the lake while fish cook over a crackling fire
It’s a home with a swing-set in the backyard with a dog tied to a banana tree, while naked children dance through sprinklers.
It’s the treehouse in the neighbor's backyard
It’s a living room where friends sit and play Nintendo 64
It’s a bathtub with bubbles and a book and a beverage
Love isn’t butterflies in your stomach
It’s a butterfly garden at the city zoo on a hot Saturday morning
with butterflies flittering and fluttering and flattering around.
Love isn’t jumping in front of a train for someone
It’s the parking lot of a hospital you run through to stand by a death bed, reading from a Bible you haven’t opened in twenty years.
Love isn’t your parents or brothers or sisters or cousins or friends
It’s the patio screened in, with the rain tap dancing on its roof,
while a father of three snores peacefully in a rocking chair.
Love is Calvary’s hill
It’s a trustworthy bank
It’s a dog kennel jam-packed with the loyal, the faithful, the brave, and the true
Love is an underground railroad connecting those who belong together.
Jan 10, 2013
Jan 10, 2013 at 9:27 AM UTC
i walk down roadsides n smile at clouds in towering wonder and sit upon hillocks of gravel watching citylights and knowing the same kinds of light shine upon you, too, sometimes: sweet, and in flittering movements. and in this snow-flurry, a single snowflake floats down the river of endless night, and drifts lazy pattern from our respective skins to each other's; i'll clamber up, down, over valleytops and riverbeds
to find you
Aug 14, 2015
Aug 14, 2015 at 7:48 AM UTC
Arctic Seasoned Disguise
Winter breathes in sepia tones along a lonely two lane street
divided amongst the sweeping frozen dunes
now forced into shouldered amnesty
Street lights shiver in snow capped bonnets
while sidewalks sleep ‘neath blankets of flittering flakes
The air, frigidly crisp…moves of tiny chiffon sparkles dancing
Rooftops, plump and soft, show off their frosted padding
as evergreens find alabaster fingers tickling their branches
in chilled teasings and frozen dustings
Footprints, once there are gone, covered and recovered again
all evidence of life is erased beneath pearl clouded skies
and faint outlines of distant thoughts
White on black stripes drape in glacial wanderings
spanning the slush of asphalt weavings
in straight line piercings across the wintry landscape
February reigns brutal, sub zero ponderings swirl
from high above the icebox wasteland, once brimming with color
now opaque in its arctic seasoned disguise…
Feb 20, 2015
Feb 20, 2015 at 1:38 PM UTC
There is a time after busy schedules, warm hugs, cold tears and brave encounters my sweet.
This is the final gift I wish to share with you.
This is called the time of the butterflies.
When we pass from this world; when we can do no more on this plain of existence, we turn into silver butterflies
Who dance in the sky, swirling above everyone’s head, flittering and flying.
It looks like, when you see them, that they don’t have a purpose, mindless but beautiful.
But you cannot judge them, until you know what important role they play for us.
At night, these butterflies will glow and guide those who are lost
Offering a path that only a few dare tread.
For this path is usually filled with struggles and triumphs.
But for those who are lost, realise, they are never alone.
And when the butterflies cannot glow, they explode, elegantly; they become shards of light, so all may experience
Togetherness.
During the day, butterflies disguise themselves in the natural world as normal butterflies.
Their bright colours let us appreciate beauty, but remind us that like you and me, butterflies are born, they live as we do. But their magic keeps them alive for however long we need them.
There sole role is to keep us believing, believing that there is something better, always something better.
They restore the faith that society and the world have crushed out of us.
You do not have to call a butterfly when you need them my sweet, they will be there whenever you need them.
They will know when you need someone to hug or someone to talk too.
Or even if you want someone to play games with.
I will be there.
My sweet, I am your silver butterfly.
I will always be there when you need me.
You are never alone, because I will always glow.
Glow for you.
So during the day, on your way to school watch for the butterflies,
And before you go to bed, watch out the window.
I will be sat on your windowsill until you fall asleep.
Rest my sweet, I will see you tomorrow.
Love your silver butterfly (Daddy)
εїз
Nov 27, 2013
Nov 27, 2013 at 3:52 PM UTC
It's when you're teetering on the edge of insomnia,
When every pound of your being is exhausted
To the point where you're seeing colours,
Without recognising objects, people,
Kind souls, kindred spirits,
That you soar to the most wonderful place
Of creativity and life-fulfilling happiness,
Or at least if not happiness, then
Contentment or satisfaction.
But, like insomnia, that teetering
Is the fundamental factor -
Because that same day,
In that same continuation of euphoria,
You can be waiting for a train,
And whilst you teeter at the edge
Of the cold station platform walkway,
You can plummet to the depths of depression,
Return to those comforting, suffocating clutches,
And that cry for help is stifled
By the thundering railway carriages,
And all that is left is a ****** stain -
Stained in your mind,
The knowledge that you'll never escape those clutches,
That grasp for the underneaths of railway carriages
Or the cordless bungee of tall buildings,
The comfort of the warm ground below,
And, naturally, a poem,
Flittering away in the gust of the train
Storming through the station
Like your ever-dwindling happiness...
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 12:08 PM UTC
Flittering feathers write sonnets
in soaring frequencies;
taking in the ocean at once,
I felt ripples brought to standstill,
damped by second's refrain,
curled back into the
picturesque blue written ahead,
but
no cloud harbours the ceiling,
no late words shown, jotted down
by the
indifferent and
invariably disappearing breeze.
The latterwork of these days took it up,
and hung it out
on lines stretched across skies and time,
betraying tender surfeit, in moments
torn out,
and,
leaving only
vague traces of
woodworn prose,
spilling out my last sentiments:
*"we, once,
were alive,
if only for a moment."*
In dreams she holds small collections
of sandy flowers,
above the shoreline,
as the dichotomous cluster takes theirs,
behind a fragmentary grain
in the blacksmith's hide;
written, again, are those seasick letters,
wrung out
in the dead heat of the forge,
the demands of strangers,
in stone buildings by the fireplace,
electric heater, off,
the inbetween reeling
of slightened accomplishments,
the scent of oil,
left over, from the husk of noon.
Miss and want, over again,
missing beguilement in afternoon's repose.
"come back...",
but she ain't the one gone.
Apr 5, 2013
Apr 5, 2013 at 7:12 AM UTC
monday hit you like a stack of bricks. ultimately, she tried to fix you. you probably dated her early on. fists full of highlighters and notebooks left no room for your hand to hold. she was too focused on the future, she forgot about the present. half here, half there, flittering in and out of reality. she made being together feel scheduled. monday drowned you in her sea of checklist bulletpoints.
you can’t remember tuesday all that much. the milky blue of the tattoo on your left knee is all you have left of her. you finger it fondly, a ghost of a memory.
wednesday made you want to change yourself. but you are not play dough, not created to be moulded. she gave you the urge to be someone new. but you lost yourself in her passions. you will never understand wednesday.
thursday got you back on track, but it felt like a routine. surely there’s something more. there were things you loved about thursday, but it felt like you were waiting for something else. you sat on the couch together like bookends, not a pair. thursday was a marionette show, you were run by the strings.
friday was a dream. she was a perfect 10. you felt free with friday. but then friday got a little crazy. you couldn’t keep up with her. carefree nights turned into mornings of advil chased by black coffee. when she snuck under the rusty chain link fence and beckoned for you to follow her to paradise you walked away with a scar from a stray wire. she only gained happy memories. you were sinking in the very tequila shots that made her float.
after you recovered from friday, you met saturday. aren’t we all racing through monday through friday in hopes that we finally meet saturday? saturday was fun. she was different from the others. you fell in love with saturday. but sometimes, saturday doesn’t always work out. you had plans and hopes for saturday, but as you look back and realize, she wasn’t everything you always wanted it to be. saturday broke your heart. but, for every saturday you face, there will be a sunday.
you know when you see sunrise after staying up all night and a feeling of pure serenity washes over you? that’s what it’s like to meet a sunday. you can be yourself around sunday. sunday helps you become a better person. she kisses your scars left from the others. sundays are magical, but they are also human. she will not sit on a pedestal, but sit beside you in the most human form. there will still be bumps on the road, but that road will lead to happiness.
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 4:44 PM UTC
I drink aurora till my thirst satiates.
Eyes shut, I drink till the gulf widens whilst every spark in me is painted dull
Till no eye sees vividness in the flittering of butterflies,
Till throbbing fades and rumbling becomes melodic,
I drink till my covertness is colourful,
Till my eyes redness is painted
For bereft I am but I'm a fighter, a believer
I drink aurora till my soul is filled
Till transcendency becomes my fortune
And then I'll dance not in colours, but colourful my immortality would be.
Oct 5, 2014
Oct 5, 2014 at 8:18 AM UTC
For our son we lost to brain cancer 2009:
memorial
a crowd
candles lit
songs sung
words read
memories shared
hugs and tears
Butterflies released
"Ah!" breathed
in unison
Monarchs
so rare
filling the air
for those few moments
with their delicate
flittering wave
wafting in a clear royal sky
~~~~~~~~~~~~~
one week
at home
family of four
intimate sharing
candles lit
words read
words spoken
memories shared
wineglass toast
eyes drift to the window
"Ah!" in unison
and amazement
Monarch
rare and magnificent
out the window
on Butterfly Bush
posed at that very moment
for us to sense
his transformation
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 11:57 AM UTC
i have found
i have found what
i have
found what you taste like
you taste like the rusty feathers of a sighing ocean
tempest. like the .
you taste like a shower of stars crackling
on the belly of the night. white and stiff and minute and.
like taste you i. salty. and. put my skin on yours
the most supreme dominion of sudden heart beats sanguine
pump
loose strands of limbs tangled. you,i,taste like you taste like
a
burst of life in the arteries of the still sons. a delicious
BLOSsom
slippery petals finger split.
like the rain. do you taste. falling. enshrouds the crown
of my devotions. flavor riot !
y.ou are taste like i like to taste you)
like the sun likes to taste the mountain girls breast crumbs
jutting
pink. pleasure crumbles from your shivering.
and how are your bones so diligently under
your skin? and i lick them. and they are mine. for but a moment.
but i
am
yours till quiets
the stutter of my flittering red muscles;
.
Jun 25, 2010
Jun 25, 2010 at 10:35 AM UTC
Idyllic sensations of fingertips gliding across unspoiled flesh
Kisses fill in the gaps left by words unspoken
Bright eyes meet and exchange heavy glances of infatuation
Souls clinging to the inexperienced adoration, praying it stays fresh
The luxury of hearts yet to be broken
Blooming lust like budding carnations
Petals flittering about in cold springtime sun
Flippant and apathetic about what the future holds
Never expecting to be crushed under the boot of a world-weary passerby
Despite pressure to crumble apart, the petals cling together until their lives together are done
The heavy feeling of eyes cast upon young lovers, bystanders recanting the most terrible scolds
Are no match for star-crossed lovers, too entangled in emotions to be pulled apart by outside forces, and too far gone to say goodbye.
Mar 28, 2013
Mar 28, 2013 at 11:36 PM UTC
It varies from woman to woman, however
this girl will always hate giving birth
Maybe she wouldn’t even get married nor have ****** ***********
More than forty years ago those childish thoughts kept circling in my mind
It didn’t take long for her to realize that *** and babies had something in common
Nana so often said to us girls with her Island slang
*“What sweeten a goat mouth, would burn his tail end”
So girls you're worth it, don’t do it*
The after effects, the after effects so complex and powerful
Nana woke us up in the wee hours of the morning
either with her singing, or the rattling of the *** and pans
I knew at some point I would come to hate being a nurse
I probably wouldn’t be able to show Compassion
If you aren’t compassionate enough: being a Nurse isn’t for you
I hated those homebirth early morning deliveries
Not enough light, no running water in the homes,
And the list goes on in late sixties on the Island
When I finally woke up that morning
I noticed Nana’s black bag on the table:
Her lily white apron on the back of the chair
How she got her uniform to stay so white was a miracle to me
Granddad was outside fixing something under the old Wolseley bumper
Using an old flittering kerosene paraffin lamp to get the job done
Our country farm house sat the bottom of the hill
So Grandad needed the old Wolseley car to be in good condition
To pulled Porte hill and there I was about to be Nana’s Nursing Assistant
Was I up for the yelling, screaming, crying? At my age, I wasn’t,
However, being defiant wasn’t appealing, Nana played on our emotions
another one of her favorite island slangs
“Some children are to be ****** to death if they are defiant to their parents said Nana”
I was also too sleepy to sulk so I sat and quietly listen to her rambling on and on:
So I turned all my thoughts and energy to Genesis 3:16
To the woman he said, "I will make your pains in childbearing very severe; with painful labor you will give birth to children. Your desire will be for your husband, and he will rule over you."
And that was my last words to Nana: No man shall have control over my body
and that was my last trip with Nana on her delivering baby route.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 6:50 AM UTC
She sat and watched the translucent orange leaf fall
and with it every aspiration of her ego
She noted the way the dull morning sun shone through it
Ego and leaf alike
Her house is a happy one
Sisters smile
baking cakes when autumn appears
Brothers smile
when furtive grass rises in the spring
Her life is a happy one
She sat and watched the fire burn
cutting her own hair
and whistling
Her song was happy too, as the dwindling dream faded and the afternoon moon shied away
fears once ever present now vapour on crisp dewy winter evening breezes
He sat and watched her trace faces in the air
with a delicate finger
And he drew her face in his mind with ease
His self collapsing
His house is a happy one
Father smile
playing raucous games in the summer epoch
Mother smile
huddled with baby on winter snapshot days
His life is a happy one
His words were happy too, as he scribbled on ragged notepads whilst the wind blew
and so many newspapers broke free from the vendor by the statue
(Though they can't shake that one impression
of the world dematerialising before them
and the prolonging of time
in the interim ghost world
of lost memories
and sadness
on DMT)
I saw them rise on a January morning, lights cascading over treetops
Flittering life and love combined in sun-drenched washed out skies
watching them floating so high
and their smiles were new stars
a transcendent tenderness
that I was in awe of
and still am
Repressed sadness manipulated into shapes
when they made love in the sky
Every bleak memory of their time dissipated
and the cityscape below began to bloom
All industry halted, a million stood and watched
as new life radiated around them
Convoluted linear time was now disrupted
All events in history, happened simultaneously
The birth and death of a cosmos
Captured in a kiss
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:21 AM UTC
Your Primrose blossomed in the Spring
frothy petals in the light flared
a brilliant hue your season to groom
I stitched a garland to pair
my green blades with your orbit,
blushing from your radiant glare
a satellite garnishing stray beams
My doting shadow, enfiladed
by the waxy glow of your stems,
entrenched around your lurid stalk
Vassal bands nestled below as
the sultry air bore your fragrance
to the tips of each driveling strand
Growing in your rendered space
light years from your radiant estate
milk weeds fawned at your feet,
but my encroaching shadow
and twining sickles
could not seal your comely face
In just a few days, the light
from your bright candle
flittered its last beam
your silky cheeks folded,
not from winter's cold stare
or the wind's shaking reins
Unencumbered by my embrace,
without flair or aplomb,
you cast your gilded parasol
to its shallow, un-dug grave
A decaying, still life brand
now shrouded my sodded feet
May 16, 2014
May 16, 2014 at 8:18 PM UTC
Bohemian dichotomies are like winding garden paths, where foxgloves and lupins stand proudly with a rich array of botanical flamboyance.
What is the structure of this pervasive uncertainty, where conspiracy is a perpetual construct which is designed to interfere with anthropological cohesion?
Consider the presence of a mature apple tree, where doves abide in ornithological matrimony.
Let us humbly acknowledge that nature is a powerful beautician, who expels her adversities with gentle ruthlessness.
Let us kiss together amidst this romantic pasture of nostalgic permission.
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 11:03 PM UTC
The elephant is my religion
I am the elephant
A swarm of magic locusts
Flittering into the sunset
A maggots breath of hope
This pact is my priority
Sworn into secrecy to a spirit within myself
Two thoughts becoming one
Like a fairy on slippers of purity
Humanity, a cycle of insanity
Can we overcome the cotton candy
Mystery of mountains in the trees?
An elvish land of history
Like heat upon the leaves
Dilate the sight to see
A cringing demon of flowers and seeds
And bullfrog dances in circles round
A night in the forest
My night on the town.
Nov 16, 2011
Nov 16, 2011 at 3:54 PM UTC
The Brooklyn Bridge is
an array of lights
stretching limb to limb
across the water.
It slaps tiny sequins on the east river,
as those give way
on that anything but black and steady
to blinking eyes on the barges
and the flittering stingers of heliccopters
zipping from cloud to cloud.
This orchestra of human expansion
reddens the black walls
of my apartment,
with light.
The scratchy comforter
and starch-hardened pillow
scramble on my bed
in a mess of rifts and fabric mountains.
I love getting up
in the middle of the night
and staring out of this window,
but when I go back to bed,
the voices of the wasps,
mournful barges,
and falsetto of the old springs
give way to thinking
and restlessness.
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 10:00 AM UTC
Thursday night is game night but Hasbro
has never had this one right. Operation is not
a game for ages four and up–maybe four,
multiplied by four, add four, and up.
Surgical mask on, Cavity Sam prepped,
and tweezers waiting to the right of the operating table:
I like to start with the Adam's apple–
carve away any trace of my origins
and they will never figure out who I am
because, like my mother used to say to me,
who is Eve without a blameless man.
Then I move on to the butterflies in the stomach
flittering and fluttering for a home that feels far more familiar
but they cannot be caught, only drowned.
Naturally, the broken heart follows
but the problem with pulling that out is
the never-ending-silence,
white-noise-science, black-hole-giant,
You know, the absence that predates writer's block–
writer's cramp, sliding a pencil up your wrist like it's the
(best kept) secret IV of an author.
Is that the price of filling up your bread basket,
going to bed full on recognition and reward
and maybe even a Pulitzer Prize?
Be careful not to trip up on your own ego
or you just might end up with a wrenched ankle
and water on the knee.
I still have to deal with the wishbone,
the split-in-two-gravestone,
the only-one-of-us-is-leaving-here-happy zone.
And finally, I have the spare ribs
but I just might leave those there
because we see what happened when God
bothered to remove those the last time.
Aug 1, 2016
Aug 1, 2016 at 3:37 PM UTC
While the children sleep
I learn from my immediate elders who taught me
the good, the bad and the ugly;
however, my strength is hiding deep within.
If only the pain weren’t so severe.
An ugly duckling who suffers Verbal and physical abuse
From the cool, pretty crowds of clueless incompetent?
You with your tawny hair, they often shout
Flat jacks with granny strap
String beans without the lean
So cruel; so mean those terrorist sounds
That goes round and round on the playground
While the children sleep through the night
I play with night flyers
Golden wings and friendly flittering smiles we dance,
Into Twinkling lights of the meadow;
Late at night without the feuds or the abuse of the inferiors
I got teary eyes as I say farewell to my misty friends
Bigotry and hatred, Playgrounds terror,
Children of the cornfields rules the inner cities school
Throughout kindergarten into high school
You must process the Skill of a tiger, speed of a leopard
Going to school going isn’t any fun anymore
This is the day of trouble, and of rebuke, and blasphemy: the
The children are coming to birth and there is not strength
To bring forth:(bibical)
Apr 7, 2012
Apr 7, 2012 at 7:48 AM UTC