The bookmatched war of morning slogs to vistas grand.
Mimetic hope fulfills the trope, a scope too large to stand.
The mudcaked slide of afternoon denies its' earthly plummet.
With rusted chains and bed sheet stained, pain the love of summit.
The whiteflag rain of eventide sings a mortal hymn.
Conceded, sore and sick with lore, a whore for pseudonym.
The wayward glow of midnight oil teases inner flame.
We grow against the grain we know to show this fear in frame.
We throw ourselves against the wall until we know its' name.
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Author:
Quemis (
Offline) - Published: July 17th, 2017 02:00
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 27
Offline)
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