Face Of A Dire King
November lips Drowning in sweet tied relief With a bleak little prince Awaiting his ground for rule Morning to our bitter blend Under passionless fumbles Some of ninety, of twenty, of some Next to me, to suffer in breath Hushed cantered men Awaiting their ground for rule Whereas spray painted bite marks Are more of fossils for being As heaven under arrest Leaving us these little men Their little wives A product bastard child Immense brusque eyes Clinging to them well Lifeless Upon this broken soil With anguish thrusting for peeking Indeed a look, a dream, authenticity My only inked scab A face of a dire king Still bemused As to where they led us ...sir...?World full of dead kings Written November 4th, 2001 © on Nov 04 2001 03:09 AM PST 0 • 1
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"November lips..."