A lonely outcast sings in the middle of the night,
Despite the cascade of the rain, he made no enemy of it.
Instead, he harmonized with it.
He's a clear and mellow songster of the night.
Come dawn, he stays by the alleyway
Covered in no convenient wear,
He's a filth in the eyes of the morning crowd,
His voice is meek and not so loud.
For he's the symbol of the broken,
Even the swarm wouldn't dare to touch his tokens,
I cry, should I, when even hell casted him out,
He's a maggot in the carcass, a figure that says "everything in us we should throw out."
Til dark comes forth again,
He's preparing for his next grand big parade,
With his witnesses as trees,
And the gusts of all these steadfast breeze.
He sings once more, and there appears a door
For his own bliss.
It's his only cheat in living in this atrocious world.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry Of A Count
PoetryThis book is not suitable for audiences with zero percent sense of imagination and a mental age of two and below. I'm not really a great poet, just a guy who knows how to hold the pen and write the twenty six letters of the alphabet. But I like thin...
