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By Rhetoric Date: 2001 Sep 29 Comment on this Work [[2001.09.29.09.04.3679]] |
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Rolling back on fields of grass my twisted song tells of you. Our stop-motion story lost within a crowd of soft eyes. Heavy hands work barren fields; no grain or love to harvest. Each road unearths lost turmoil. Yet, fescue still takes me home. Faded photographs mark time with breast and hip precision. Fables of long since past snows push away starting faces. Gilded tales of perfection make calm the torment that swells. Archives of love brought to light only flaunt chorography. The luxury of loving; caged in black, but paid in full. Free your fondled treasure toy with earnest and loyalty. I would rather waste my love than allow thieves to trample my growing bud of freedom. My hollowed soul is set free. |