embers
August 18th, 2011, 06:04 AM
spur of the moment shit. i don't write poems.
It's on a dimly lit street that you walked by him,
You cast a momentary glance and just about nothing more.
Your aura, your halo, couldn't help but constrict
A man with much to win, a man with stricken eyes.
Your figure, your face, was the type he hadn't seen
Through any other medium but a torn up page.
He's the product of austerity, society's extra cost, but
You're the white child of an impure snob.
He's the puddle of filth from which corpses drink,
But your deep trench is still his bullseye.
Now your skin is roughed up, your clothes in a mess,
Hair no longer garnier, instead laced with dogshit crust.
Your walls are broken and your fine curves turned raw,
There's a gaping missing limb where once amity tread,
And the image of his pride now burned in your head.
It's on a dimly lit street that you walked by him,
You cast a momentary glance and just about nothing more.
Your aura, your halo, couldn't help but constrict
A man with much to win, a man with stricken eyes.
Your figure, your face, was the type he hadn't seen
Through any other medium but a torn up page.
He's the product of austerity, society's extra cost, but
You're the white child of an impure snob.
He's the puddle of filth from which corpses drink,
But your deep trench is still his bullseye.
Now your skin is roughed up, your clothes in a mess,
Hair no longer garnier, instead laced with dogshit crust.
Your walls are broken and your fine curves turned raw,
There's a gaping missing limb where once amity tread,
And the image of his pride now burned in your head.