Rip shall be my new tide;
Open the smile up wide.
In the wake of the Bourgeois' taste,
Refine society by revolution.
A man can rise when another man dies.
In every theater we dance;
Tiles rip beneath our feet by chance.
We build another ship of gold and marble.
When it sinks beneath the cold, we wed the drink
Until wearily, we lay, and slain, for chance.
Every century turns to ghost
Until our revolution makes the coast.
Well fed sails wither, and we take them down.
We fill our pockets with empty and we split our bow,
Every arrow knocked till none can boast.
And rip shall he my new tide
Because whether</I> cannot decide.
5/13/2014
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!
