This lonely bastard,
Waiting for the fade of the thorns,
Born out of wedlock,
He looks at the pain he has borne...
A wait for the morrow,
Eager to follow the shadows of luck,
Swims in the depth of sorrow,
Numb against the dearth of love...
For we're all born mammon of wine,
For a sweet sonnet,
A scent so fine,
For the jingle in our pockets...
Yet there are some,
Borne by chronic pain,
They're closer that relentless glum,
Even drives endurance insane...
No comments:
Post a Comment
Groove to the era