Wednesday, February 15, 2012

To the beloved lunar-tic, With Utmost Disinterest.

The crooked cans sing a crooked song,
As you pass along these withered willows
You can hear them clank - through the roads rather long.
She basks in the glory of her idiocy,
She basks in the beauty of the dark
She speaks of a world long forgotten -
She lives through whirls of snarl.
This great abeyance then,
Shall lead to no everlasting hills.
Oh, onlooker! do you see their marbled facades of blue smoke?
Rueful and vexed - his tender skin you see
But, do you never wonder - What else it might be?

Aurora pinned me to this world of desolation -
where be her light?
But, you forget -
My soul is a bride here - dressed so beautifully in white.

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