Sexta-feira, 19 de Março de 2010

The Moody Blues Poems....

Red Fly By

Behind the desolate Sunday sway,

He salutes the deadly eras.

With eyes and hands blooded

He throws stones out the early fear.

In all the wonder….

Will he ever go under?

Dices rolled on river of solitude.

Gained echoes of past furies,

One mindless image of one last soul…

Lost many wars,

Statements and voices blurred in psychedelic moments.

Sharpen, wastes the real deal.

As if history repeats ‘’fail’’ on and on.

He hears a savior guitar growling at the frosted heart.

Shining at the middle of his undone persona.

Finds himself bowing the real crazy diamonds ….

Did he reach the secret too soon???


Written by: David Nightingale às 00:23
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