Wednesday, 17 August 2011


the triumphant howling of the wind through shattered glass,
the fleeting fancies of a decadent soul,
all and nothing entwine in open windows of a delicate mind.
Am I to yield to such lethargy?
Am I to rest while the gale roars?
the slender inclinations of a serpent rule my actions
promices politely pluck at my heart
while the stampeding herds muffle my intentions
a languishing song echoes outward
trust is lost...
in tangled thicket of melancholy brambles it lies bleeding
a severed conscience and a broken mirror at its feet

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