Thursday, December 19, 2013

The son dances in the moon's wind

Mild nights, streams of awe

Grace galore, man of flare

Sequined flaws, I am daylight

I reel it all, my mind's pictorial

Pours showers of quarantined ore

Gold, brass digging for dreams ashore

I walked a journey of a thousand lives

My path awashed by quicksand

Blood vessel and gland, circulating passion

A time warp, caught in a tangent of what should

Or could have been before I turned twenty-four

In a foreign space, peasant to paupers

Swam up shits' creek and came out clean

Stained scents, aroma of King Tut

Build me a coliseum, a treasury for my woes

Then comes conquest, with hard breath

Calloused limbs, I beseech the throne

A prayer oft-expressed in my cradle years

Bring me success or portion me death

On my sarcophagus, wreath me a withered prune

The unfermented here thee lay

The fishing pole that seldom bends it's shape

Acquaints poverty, even herrings wouldn't play

A facet of an argument defunct of logic

The faucet that renders clean

A race I ran, a fractured spleen

Weak belly, malady of a glutton for shillings

A pasture in the wild, shepherd's slay

So in my time, I shed carapace

Not to hide my past but renew my zeal

As vellum, a tablet for the paradigm that is life

Recurring; hills, valleys and flat lands that nigh.

Pivotal in my stance, funneling the monsoonic tidings..

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