Children of water and dust, and red that metal rusts, are of Spirit from the very same shore. For no shade of colorful slip or silver disk spares stripped flesh of the shadow of green. And what is the shadow of green, but a means for chains and bars, to rob the youth of their glee and set the old to Death in Sea? We are they, and they are we, and divided cold by oceans of rattling envy. Every pocket barren for but lint, and rare receipt; for they are we, and we are they, and upon the shadow of green, a tint of gray.
12-4-2013
YOU ARE READING
RIP
PoetryTwisted. Fearful. Beating. Harmony: Dark imagery of an ex-psychopath written in poetry. Rest in Peace, my little straight jacket. Enjoy the reading, my friends!
