

The Old Man and the StarlingThe Old Man and the StarlingThe Old Man and the Starling
So this wasn’t all that much a poem, Maybe a rather faint whisper; drifting Like you.
The sigh of the ever-watchful pebbles down in the valley, The ever- alive minute willing the seconds away,
The ever-sleepy, ever, always, always. Putrid? Ever would I wonder why. But simply here the whisper floats,
Around the crescent of deadly trees, threatening the ugly old man inside of me, Holding a candle between his crossed legs, sighing heavily,
Watching the wax cover his hand.
He traced your path, he did,
A recollec


Martyr-IdealistThe darkness was a shrieking sound captivating the captivated, the glass of the window like treacle temptation. You saw the clouds engage. Compensation for the hidden stars: Carve up your scars. Fall gently onto your grey silk grave To cut of the chains, off the hands of the slaves.Martyr-Idealist
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As One They Blind Me
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