These cavorting appendages waver,
the stampede of ivory tusks already passed by
lowering their heads in a bow as they went.
Shadows towering over the white plains below,
A necromancer cavalry of 36 strong
to resurrect life into their fallen yet wayward sons
- Sinking slowly into a comfortable demise.
Smoke on the water, submerging agile hands
unable to find essence in these palms.
It seems the sounds were only meant for the divine,
and no matter how much I stretch my beliefs
or push my luck to the utmost limits...
You'll always be the black cat that ran away.
A notice to the minority,
Who stood back and watched my only fall.
The bright orange and red blooms of passion
turned out to be no more than the end,
as I became naked in front of the masses
and withered to firewood,
burning into a legion of eyes
who stood startled by the heat.
But...
The finale concerto was nothing more than a
cerebral haemorrhage.
R.I.P Simon Barere, 1951.
88 Keys, 10 Fingers... 0 Repeats.
Reply With Quote
