Here is a place for you,
Set down on fields, that through
Your pointless wandering,
All breaks down, sundering.
Fire that sweeps
From your shouldering gaze,
Autumn that creeps
Towards your Hellish, false haze.
I am, what can be called
Music, for what is walled.
You have trapped yourself in your own glance,
Broken and torn up in your own stance.
Life did not leave you with many paths
To walk upon,
Blood only sides with its own white bath
To step down on.
You have your poor Hell,
I'll have my Heaven
For some life given
Freedom from its shell.
Like this:
Like Loading...