Sheets Of Jet
When The Night lies in painted sheets of jetAnd the ragged rows of alphabet streets get
Addressses jumbled into weather tumbled rain
When you lie on beds of pain your just restraint is felt
Pointless powers pelt the covers of your brain
Cartoon colored simplistic nightmare headlines breaking
Everywhere again, no turn remains unturned,
What recourse for what complaint?
It's always the ancient curse wearing some shallow new cosmetic crest
The East comes wresting tiger balms from the dirty palms of The West
Another thief to pawn your lives for grief 's brief refrain I guess,
We all come down to try where we are met
When The Night lies in painted sheets of jet.
Poetry by Chaucer Whethers
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Written on 2014-12-20 at 11:56
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