Monday, November 28, 2005

Whispers on the Wind

The ground's too wet to sit,
So I, instead, will stand.
From behind the pulpit,
I sing the song of Man.

It echoes through the rain,
Reverberating from
My own office of pain --
My own prison of scum.

Solemn dirges of yore
Feather across your face.
The joy you knew before,
Vanished without a trace.

I've stolen it from you.
Unintentionally.
Song so true -- deepest blue --
Your soul belongs to me.

3 comments:

Anonymous said...

MWAH!

Turmel said...

Hunt down some Octavio Paz...

Rockel said...

(snaps)