Thursday, May 26, 2011


Ferris wheels weeded out from murky muddy meadows,
Dusty, gusty shades of black paint rusty red windows,
Blue is cruel; believe me, or blindly trust the widows,
Drained and strained, slops around nasty busty shadows.

Doors opened, doors closed.
Skies shine, then cave in untold.
Years and years of damp and cold
Slapped, by the shameless bold.

Moon-rises witnessed amidst clumsy clouds of yore.
Memories clog the veins that once fueled the whore.
Foretold, the fates of men, fear to fight some more;
The smell of dead and stale still sticks to the sea-shore.

Doors opened, doors closed.
Clothes looked for a hidden fold.
Settled into the shape of mold.
Pretend as long as they hold.

Very much in context.


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