Caricamento in corso...

worn out sole

I’ve met living ghosts,
women on the verge of old,
Layered in gamma defeating make up,
For a new year an old host,
Dramatic, insulated from their own body turning cold.
Their eye’s wander like compass points at the poles,
Squander like beggars whom seen fate, succumbed to agreements,
then quietly disheveled, for whom, heaven nor they really know.
not their own distance has them tied to the now,
dereliction or predication, don’t hold to tomorrow,
let go the belief in burglars, take back your soul.
 
night is the best for beasts,
everyone pretends they can win,
whisper to a candle till it’s blown out with sin,
everyone loses what’s guarded within,
when they get back home,
from diversions of a haunting ramble,
lay down next to your lover, one you can’t handle,
make sure you still can convince her with penance,
convince her you don’t love her the least.
 
Saunter like a regal nun,
shoot like Christ with a gun,
glory is nothing unless there is someone,
completely faithful, lost like light in the sun.
Every night is the last reprieve,
wars for the righteous, causes for the creeps.
Party with the upper crusters,
wonder with a feeling of, no wonder of blunders,
habits make us and children that we absolve to suffer.
Tie all of your sorrows to hands employed with a leash,
even now your far away, my mind turns numb.                     Your words and actions  reveal you  made to reach.
Moments and monuments, prayers and dust.
loneliness is a burden, one undertakes for themselves,
as a glory, but to us, it will never mean so much.
Till you collapse asleep and dream.
All my life, I,  you ever asked of me comes out in a scream.
Gravestones multiply, declare I can no more repent, flowers to dust to pay rent,
Nobody gets out of here, we’re stuck, branded corrupt.
I don’t know why even babies can’t be innocent,
too heavy to carry away by the dove,
you can hear about, scream about it, get trampled in worry and love.
 
She decorate her eyelids and lips with rust to imitate rouge.
She made her protest, you have become confused.
Her, she can’t be refused. I feel in love with her when she said, “I’m your tour-guide in the land of the used.” You’l have a good time if you can smile and take the abuse.
I don’t think I’m free. But, I no longer accuse.Birds with their jobs and  choired coo’s,
Flyaway burdens of people who don’t want to reconcile their blues.
If I remember correctly you were the first to scorn and accuse.

Altre opere di David Schieres...



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