Beside The Inn

There's a room beside the inn
Where the sky is light
Burning through the night
In a world that loves to spin

Webs are woven, weavers skies
Crafting cradles with a silken hand
Rising seas swallowing up the land
Magicians conjuring disease with words abused
The way language is stolen, meanings inverse
Electronic podium devils mouths spout about the worse
Is best, not for them and theirs, but all the rest out there
Stand to beg, wear the latest empty rags
Enslaved to mindless strings, pulled and pushed by unseen things;

In a world that loves to spin
Burning through the night
Where the sky is light
There's a room beside the inn . . .



Poetry by Chaucer Whethers The PoetBay support member heart!
Read 442 times
Written on 2016-02-25 at 00:05

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