I shouldn't,
I shouldn't,
I shouldn't care,
I shouldn't want,
I shouldn't dare
to wish, to dream,
instead I scream and shout!
Internal blossoms, shine nor rain,
the grain will sprout,
and there's no doubt, that
it is all the same, yet same the pain
is red! and same the beast
is fed!
It feeds upon the tear it tore from. In
in that same way by which Loona craves the sun
light. Which turns, devours stars, reaps candles from a
brief
flight.
It burns a hole into the whole - my need
for just one spirit - soul to listen.
To listen
to listen.
To hear sparse words upon the lip
they just like shoes upon the rock
are gone,
a coper penny's flip, a blink, a yawn,
there's only dust.
The air is full of shock,
a thousand more of them will come,
but none will have that gentile quality to shine under the
rust,
and could I trust
the wall to know all those
I painted in the silence?
What does a rose
say to it's friend when we go deaf?
Does it desire to know the nature of the hand above?
"Is it a jailer, or perhaps a dove?"
of peace,
that will not cease to care and love?
Is such the glove,
upon that china sliver,
or should it shiver when it is stroked,
then choked,
so I turn blue.
I give a few, and then get taken in again.
That bitter melts upon a tang,
another time am over strung
until there stands,
with open hands,
a ghostly card house like a skeleton. Please
don't hurt. That plead like seas
onto your thought
will choke until you swallow.