Imhosted

This blog sponsored by:

Visit Imhosted coupon codes for more info!

The broken bell of midnightslips its temper into the gloaming of spring,a refugee soulcrumpled and crawled of spider,reveals his face to the light of a swinging lantern,Denison flown,he leans into the fountain of storm.Dissolving into the thunderstorm rain, weakened lungsgreet pungent atmospheres,a dull blue air,a dead red of skybehind chapel and farm.Erie eclipse of motion,the storm is silentand devoid of question,it falls as to fallever more terrible,more elusive to reason.Lifting grease of soil,a contemplation of strategy, is one to always fall,hindered with ill will,to the trickling of the under foot vein.Fresh spring storms,entrapment of guilt and pain.Man, your belt is loose,and your tie is a shard of wilting lace,a poet and a painter,a sculptor and vagrant.All that your heart desiredwas lain before you in the groove of destiny's deliverance, a flame tied about your eyesbut sinking in the basking,in the satisfactionof meagre achievement,you wailed no songas the seed of melancholy sprung up roots about your boots.Squelching muds of the cathedral silence,speak from your hands,everything is tired and bespoken of pulse.A gypsy foundation ofnonsensical ambition.Forward roads were strungwith the mesmerised dogma of corpse betrayal.All have their quest,ever failed or conquered,questioned in the bitten dust of thirsty lips So many peel the fruitwith meticulous handsbut coming to eat findrot has touched its pale insides.

This blog sponsored by:

Visit Imhosted coupons for more info!

All have their quest,ever failed or conquered,questioned in the bitten dust of thirsty lips So many peel the fruitwith meticulous handsbut coming to eat findrot has touched its pale insides.And he still hasa strand of crimson hair,tucked in a sown crease of money belt confusion.A question of neglectrode a curious slumber in the matinee of his lather pretension,a fiercesome night timestruck no chord.Her tears were fed to thegasping shadow of what he once was,the infant magician,the rose cup flavour of pulsing lips.She was no longer there.A mystery was all that was granted stationin the gravesome remarksthat preceded her mutiny.A marvel of regret;a purse,a harvest,a spring for the now diseased intentof his marching arm.A poke at the evening of memory delivers only the more conservative flavoursof the strength of her skin,only the blinking eye dustof her shaded face,yellowing in minds eye,her scent once so close.She vanished asyouth,as faun,as the season with which she flew.And rendered meaningless,parasite raceof boredom,protected pridemasking ghost of former smiles,he walks into the spring storm, vacant in betrayal,lost in regression of identity,refugee soul hangs from raftersand swings lifeless?in the cathedral silence.

Last Updated ( Thursday, 17 July 2008 )

[ Back ]