IN THE MIND
BY SUCCUBUS
Laughter, tears, fragmented years
To follow these fears to sleep
And words mean nothing
Like our lives
A rabbit's rhymes.
Ripped and torn.
Too forlorn
Way too worn.
To be born
Or blow the horn
That bears the scorn
Of nothing.
Like a ghost in the wind.
In the Fool's play
It's what we say
And what we do
And where we stray.
Is it God Bless us
Or God damn us
Who can say?
REACTIONSAscending | Descending
Tuesday, 17 June 2008
It appears, my friend Firefall, that poetry these days is supposed to make about as much sense as a congressional committee. At least it rhymes, sorta. What the f..... indeed.
Possibly we are out of the loop?
Possibly we are out of the loop?
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