The only sign of him being
alive are the ashes dusted...
From the bowels of depression
grow sepia buildings tall...
Sunshine basking behind thunderous clouds
frozen icicles shadow flames of spring...
Poetry, no one knows you as much as I do,
you are not beauty born from roots...
I was a disfigured fox,
disappearing into a fog of dead wood and winter...
Every time i look at the mirror
Disappointment is what i see...
2014-03-13 03:09 AM
When I die...
The violinist hit her chin
with her bow, I bow...
Old man still a child
rubs mist from a tram window...
Peace Is Not A Way Of Life
By Mark Spencer...
But a stone's throw from home
Withers the shell of an elderly man...
She now denies the god
he brought out in her...