Some poetry for you.
Lightning-dedicated to Spencer White
An electric fork stabs at the night
A drunken dance through the twilight sky
A skewed, sharp dagger ripping throught the canvas of a masterpiece
Tearing that calm dream of silence into shreds of paper
Some godly thrown javelin from the heavens
The fastest stitching of silver across that blanket of horizon
A vehicle of electricity racing down the highway, from cloud to ground
The roar of the engine follows shortly after, sounds unable to to keep up
Slamming on its brakes, colliding with the soil, and scorching the earth
Leaving nothing but smoke and fire behind
Paper
A plateau of pale white sand stretches across a desk
The Sahara and The Valley of the Dead jointed together know no boudaries as limitless as these
The riches there shine and glitter brighter and longer than any gold on this Earth
And are more numerous than the grains of sand on a wave-crushed beach
or the blades of grass in your lawn
Archaelogists travel and trek every day on the sands of this desert,
hunting for such treasures that would set the glory of the world aflame.
Many a livelihood has been toiled away in this barren wasteland
underneath the scorn and mercy of the Sun unrelenting,
the dry wind blowing time away like the sand.
The sand itself is the gold, the treasure, the answers.
The truth burns so brilliant it blinds the masses.
Few souls see past the light and
use this torch to beat back the ignorance like the devouring night.
Loot unearthed appears in shades of black and grey.
These sands are a monument to a tree's sacrifice to
fuel the fires of the minds that enlighten this world.
Lightning-dedicated to Spencer White
An electric fork stabs at the night
A drunken dance through the twilight sky
A skewed, sharp dagger ripping throught the canvas of a masterpiece
Tearing that calm dream of silence into shreds of paper
Some godly thrown javelin from the heavens
The fastest stitching of silver across that blanket of horizon
A vehicle of electricity racing down the highway, from cloud to ground
The roar of the engine follows shortly after, sounds unable to to keep up
Slamming on its brakes, colliding with the soil, and scorching the earth
Leaving nothing but smoke and fire behind
Paper
A plateau of pale white sand stretches across a desk
The Sahara and The Valley of the Dead jointed together know no boudaries as limitless as these
The riches there shine and glitter brighter and longer than any gold on this Earth
And are more numerous than the grains of sand on a wave-crushed beach
or the blades of grass in your lawn
Archaelogists travel and trek every day on the sands of this desert,
hunting for such treasures that would set the glory of the world aflame.
Many a livelihood has been toiled away in this barren wasteland
underneath the scorn and mercy of the Sun unrelenting,
the dry wind blowing time away like the sand.
The sand itself is the gold, the treasure, the answers.
The truth burns so brilliant it blinds the masses.
Few souls see past the light and
use this torch to beat back the ignorance like the devouring night.
Loot unearthed appears in shades of black and grey.
These sands are a monument to a tree's sacrifice to
fuel the fires of the minds that enlighten this world.
posted by Sam | 8:26 PM
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