ghost
the west is deadsweet slumber of the innocent who bears no arms and has no witnesses whose thoughts have been predestined to that which is of western descent. descending from thereabouts sweet child, sweet child, who fears not the drought consuming the land, drying the sea awaking dead westerners in the sweat of anxiety the mind controls that which we don't know incapable comprehension, human minds never grow but rather dwell on past, forgiving present relieving pressure from a fatal message sweet child; dream, child, basked in purity veil your mind in unrealistic imagerythe west is dead
God, Save the WinterI sit, alone, in this wooden prison which really isn't a prison, but it's chains bind me down Somehow, I can't help but to shield my eyes at the vision- Sunlight! Lazily drifting through panes, to the ground Dwelling, I am wearily sufficed, but I'm hungry to fly I can taste the air, and see the shadow in the blur and I move my hand, slowly... slower... to touch, but, nigh, I am unpleasantly unsurprised; nothing occurs save the disappointment, so thick I can feel it but I stay grounded, planted, trapped, lost To this darkened chamber, I'm not fit I ache to feel the remnants of wGod, Save the Winter
Previous PageNext Page