Circled the world,
looking for a white wedding,
searching the longest halls,
through paper and strife,
breaking chips off our golden shoe to pay the piper,
ravens crash into my torso,
wicked winds with which to float off,
roots to breathe and leaves to feed.
I found myself next to a fallen child.
A mirror underground, hidden for all eyes to bare.
The dice rolling on silk,
twirling with every knock,
crash to forgive,
slip on a cracker.
narcotics in smells,
stains with all too real.
| | darcojoe (![[info]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif?v=91.6){kind=small} darcojoe) wrote, |
The Boney King of Nowhere
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