Poetry

Greg
PROFILE About me Friends (3) Poetry (49)


26 march 2014

Despotic Confusion

At times things are said
And feeling are hurt
To touch the flower
And slightly pull it off course
To bloom towards the shade
Of a weeping willow tree
 
Grass leans softly to the left
And a violently convulsing ego
Is gently caught in outstretched hands of prayer
Tamed
And made silent
In the whispering wind
Of a hot summer night
 
Gallantly seething
As confusion sets in
To go forward or try to grab
Is the difference between
A reasoned descent into madness
And a glimmering ride into the depths of nothingness
Spat on the floor
And arrested by the sounds that call me
Over the hills
To ways of despotism  




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