Tuesday, 22 February 2011

-------------------------- The Fruit of Fatigue --------------------------

She was wearing red when she asked me my name,
Tongue tied and twisted, and tickled with fame.

Tactless and fragile, something coded and fused,
Submit and surrender, to the thought of the used.

Oh what a moment with its small truths and lies,
Sentenced to slaughter, rotten with flies.

What of this day, to which I so invest?
Where is the passion and where is the zest?

I stood there in wonder, with only cookies and cream,
Living the moment, but condemned to the dream.

Waking life is a current of my veins,
Pumping and pulsing, with its promise and pains.

Like a herd less Shepperd in search of a fleece,
Waiting for comfort, struggling for peace.

But a wolf can be found, embedded in lip,
I just want a taste, I just want a sip.

She was wearing red when her eyes met mine,
Soft and Delicious, corrupt and Divine.

Birds of a feather or a bipolar pair?
With comport and composure, the moment did stare.

But blink I did not, for such a thing was the need,
It is moments as such, that now I must feed.

Hungry and wanting, I now close my eyes,
A dream of a dreamer, now lost in the skies.

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