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...
My pen too has done
great injustice to you...