Scrounge;
for new words to leave the lips of thee.
Those I cannot find.
He was a writer,
a scribbler of dreams,
a story teller of sorts.
[Above all brilliant man]
rhyme scheme. no
next line,
next line.
foretelling the destiny of his puppets, in his own amphitheater; the one inside his head some would say. strapped the the bunk, wrists down as well as ankles. no one ever expected this from such a composer. but these thoughts, the anchor that was dragging him deeper and deeper even from the womb, drown him.
every syllable, no relief.
no weight lifted off his shoulders.
just admittance.
no lies. just life.
the wave was named parish,
and it came inside a needle without thread.
Adding your comment:
