Quinta-feira, 27 de Outubro de 2011

The Moody Blues Poems....

by  Y.Potlatch
Wicked

 

 

Blasted by the evening shine,

The man puts his faith into the hands of the nightly angel.

Just to feel the chemistry of the lost pearl…

As the soft midnight glow tends to transform every dog into a moaning wolf.

They dwell into the insecure settlement of the fast life.

As all vanity begins to take over the persona,

Nature calls it the greeting of the unwanted…

But all focus disappears as the chilly night finds the anarchist in them.

Just to take it too far and rush into hell bound.

Eager to breathe the wind of change as many turn into literal Christ’s of the new age.

Giving in, facing out.

Serving cold lectures to the needed veins.

Begging the heart to fulfill the ancient dream by carving the story…

As the morning & the shell takes in,

Bukowski seems a dream as does the night before…

Wicked… to wicked too even remember… 


Written by: David Nightingale às 00:10
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