the tale of the dead,
tells the story of time,
the time in a story,
plotted in a rhyme,
the macabre plot,
of which we cannot tell,
of the passion and the fury,
of the soul he chose to sell,
like soldiers defend,
he stands true to his line,
rooted to the ground,
the air cuts like a knife,
he trembles just like her,
he stands in the biting frost,
holding on to everything,
even what hw's lost,
his head a perpetual war,
between consience and his ticker,
the war brutal and full of guilt,
is what it takes to see her.
Cashvin. 1/31/2005 06:58:00 PM
my comatose
its far too much for me.
scream.CashvinChristopher
20's not all that bad : finds solitude in the guitar. singing my lungs out. senseless expressive poetry. making a fool of myself. :)
