Listening to:Dylan
Mood:E
With no one there left to confuse foolishly abuse or distrust
And a gypsy cowboy's lit a fuse like the match you once wrote
With a poem in some dream quietly alone wrapped up in a note,
Who heard the Phoenix's silent scream when she arose in flowers fire
With burning feathers wrought like Heaven's wing, with her keyboards and guitars,
No one but I shall know how to come to you, with your harrows and your Trope'
The childhood sorrows which ever since pursue, who else is there now to hand you Hope?
After your father's late night schematics and your mother's
broken horoscope,
When the playhouse like make believe with which you made do for those decades past
Begins to beg and misconceive, really misconstrue
and cannot last,
Who else could come to you asking, "tell me,will this do,
can we get past?"
(the past)
When you weary of the guilt trips the shabby details of where to assign the blame
And your sorrow quickens, felt so long until you sicken of his now futile game
Feeling leery as the quilt rips at the edge of your nails beginning to look the same,
Who shall smooth the ragged edges of your visions, at long last revisions of insight
Shall I be allowed to hold you then, with your streetwise halo of nicotine ringed light
To love the graceful way your shoulders shrug like soft sea tides flowing into Night,
Or shall I only be allowed to touch your thoughts, without seeing your insight...
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1077 times
Written on 2014-08-20 at 15:50
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Mood:E
Ballad Of A Thin Woman
When your little boy blue's bones have gone home to gather dustWith no one there left to confuse foolishly abuse or distrust
And a gypsy cowboy's lit a fuse like the match you once wrote
With a poem in some dream quietly alone wrapped up in a note,
Who heard the Phoenix's silent scream when she arose in flowers fire
With burning feathers wrought like Heaven's wing, with her keyboards and guitars,
No one but I shall know how to come to you, with your harrows and your Trope'
The childhood sorrows which ever since pursue, who else is there now to hand you Hope?
After your father's late night schematics and your mother's
broken horoscope,
When the playhouse like make believe with which you made do for those decades past
Begins to beg and misconceive, really misconstrue
and cannot last,
Who else could come to you asking, "tell me,will this do,
can we get past?"
(the past)
When you weary of the guilt trips the shabby details of where to assign the blame
And your sorrow quickens, felt so long until you sicken of his now futile game
Feeling leery as the quilt rips at the edge of your nails beginning to look the same,
Who shall smooth the ragged edges of your visions, at long last revisions of insight
Shall I be allowed to hold you then, with your streetwise halo of nicotine ringed light
To love the graceful way your shoulders shrug like soft sea tides flowing into Night,
Or shall I only be allowed to touch your thoughts, without seeing your insight...
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
Read 1077 times
Written on 2014-08-20 at 15:50
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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Nabeela Altaf |
