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Careful With That Axe, Pichu!
April 28th, 2007, 09:58 PM
It's funny how I keep posting poems, trying to feel self-pity.

Mudmen

Skies are struck of evening sights,
cryin’ million dusky nights.
We saw the past but as a path, as an edgeless dead-end street.

A wall to be spit upon, as the music of concrete.

If for a moment we are stone, we’re to turn the day again.
And when the sleep is over, dreams are dim but we'll remain.
Winds do whisper our laughter as stars frozen in the sky
call us not the dust and stone; stone and melodies to cry.

And she’s there, yet to fall but high and clear;
in the night we try to weep, tomorrow smile and maybe fear
if that light of her will follow steps we wander every hour,
catch our thoughts and make us fall within of energy a shower.

If our eyes see reality, we’ll never know the flush of youth
of towers built of murky tears to be cried over this truth.
Were we spoken by a child to weep and whine his life with blood
and so our smile is not, we’re the men undone in mud.

oni flygon
May 10th, 2007, 03:55 PM
Another rendition of one of your poetry, hm? This one's pretty good, descriptions and under technicalities, and it offers a great atmosphere and mood, almost dark and precise. It hits you like a swift blow to the head...