reply posted on 21-2-2011 @ 10:16 PM by Bicent76
Only skin and bone,
I find myself alone,
cold and blue,
in a pain, leaving a stain,
right here on my forhead,
plant your seeds,
beg for your disease,
cry to the sky,
sceaming in words,
broken and left in peices,
for the some day,
for them to drop the bomb,
some day soon,
we better hold up our candles,
for the day,
where we can play,
like the children in a lost fray.
the devil strums his cords,
on a guitar made rotten boards.
he sings to us one last time,
giving us a tune to dance,
while he steals our solid souls.
i stand alone once more,
with a sword I have sworn to perform,
taking us away from here,
into a world full of scorn,
I can't hear her voice,
I see her mouth it moves with force,
asking her to speak louder,
we start to run for our lives,
as the waves of shame fall on the devil seductive cords.
my chains rust in mankinds shame,
I can still see his eyes,
even with my back, full of holes,
from the night he turned black into night,
I dream with eyes open,
feeling the hot putrid wind blow across a vast mask covering the land I have been given to at last. I cannot raise my voice any louder,
I cannot slow this down the crown weigh less then the crowd. I call out to the sea's dreaming the rythmatic dreams, to awaken ,
and drown my screams..
Not all is what it appears to be. Yet we manage.
we can and shall always blame ourselves.
I guess its time to wonder,
I wonder to the gates,
where the the time scapes shift puzzling,
uncomfotable a shift my way,
trying to say, hey!
standing a trial,
a triad get a splinter,
climbing a tree trying to get higher then their own desire,
alway falling scowling at the moon,
I watch envisioning you,
sometimes I smile,
sometimes I frown,
most of all I laugh everytime you hit the ground.
One day you will be by myside,
my shield when it all goes wrong,
and my right when I am wrong,
it is you, I feel that makes the mistake.
What if thou we were all wrong,
what if its a waste,
and this place is a shape,
beyound the squares and circles,
what if we are holding it inside,
and all in all we are just the jest,
to the jesture,
we are the fornication to purification,
we are the biggest mistake,
the mishap, the bend the pure stake,
then we are the futile, waste,
the riddle and the answer,
I wish I beg the clarity,
the clarity to see the purest form,
the purist word,
the purist answer to my question...
I fight for a cause, for the effect and effort is my clog, the prevents my answers.
Wearing a coat of arms,
I am always fighting for the brighter days,
sometimes I see the shadows fade,
other times I see the darkness brighten up the day.
the steed runs to the stream,
in a dream where the forest is green like the emerald at the bottum of the stream.
Sometimes at night,
I lay and dream,
seeing things in the night,
that make me wish for the night,
a slumber that is combersome,
holding me down,
attatched to a force,
where the body holds a course,
where the living lives with the waves crashing on the beach. Always ending up alone,
just me and the stones,
standing High looking down a cliff,
where I duel with the mischief,
tossing them down to a bussling end,
ragid ravaged lands,
turning in my hands,
as the sands seep down beneath caught in the gust of wind again,
falling to a new place,
some might call it the deepest parts of space,
other call it nothing but a twist in the distant glimpse before the moment before,
we are there in the present tense,
as the hairs on our backs rise,
and the bumps contour our skin,
we never feel like that ever again.