There’s a jungle in there,
In that pretty head it lies dormant,
Something raging to be awaken,
The storm boiling up without pause,
About to take its intended course,
A ship not sunken yet set on sail,
The sudden need to not bother about it all,
A perfect run for the rest of the world to see,
A flutterby of shades so beautiful ,
A dull grey moth heart,
Stumbling in the dark,
All these rose colored glasses,
Blinded to the roaming reality,
Molten building, rising. Oh how it boils!
In the event of demise, There’s beauty in this darkness, The willows whistle such beautiful notes in the dark, The nightingale resonates words from a heart,
Words spoken by a flickering wounded soul,
Raging above with no anchor,
So it Slips and slips further from what is to what was,
The last of the rays enveloped in darkness,
Don’t you see it now?
Will it go down with beautiful grace?