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Enter Poem or Quote (Required)Required It was a baren world We fled without a feather of pride After the storm was gone Escaping the aftermath to hide What in you was going on I remember the fury of the night And you coming, coming, coming But never reached beyond the thought While our lives in a drama was caught I was your butterfly And knew when flitting your net Unless my wings were given rest The agony of desire Would exhaust the dream complete So after the storm had battered roofs And shredded doors apart We gathered all that was given For safe keeping to our hearts And across the tattered landscape Of broken arrangements And sweet interminable arguements We pick our way Leaving broken poles of light Hemmorrhaging water mains Trees cast on the rubble before our sight And proude places we could not recognize again Things so solid Fallen to tide of air, leaning on our fear Amidst the squalor's emptiness Being gripped in the sense of nothingness And precarious or vulnerable, I do not know I like a barge was towed against the flow And Wilma was gone Long gone, the poor discontented winds, the storm And looking beyond the first meet In what language did we learn This was supposed to be love Because after frozen life of tepid cities Compassion becomes a need to give I saw the dove beating in your hand A heart about die But I could not outrun you We fled beyond the limits of all Gommorah And love breathing hotly Its pounding footstep keeping pace With our puffing bodies Out of wind, with so much wind already wasted In the destruction of everything No obituaries are intended For so the days that well were blended And I wade these moments Breast deep in memory I wish I could explain cruelty Or tell the world some science That would make us beautiful Without the disgusting violence of the heart What is it that provoke rational people To expose their meaninglessness As if we were all dogs Crotching landmarks everywhere And I could not have known with my eyes turned away For I find great pleasure in the scent of flowers And scant time to sniff The vulagarity through us like flotsom drift There is such a terrible beauty in the past When the present can only a momengt last O yes tomorrow though Tomorrow and tomorrow is so better off It is always better what we do not know Always better you should know Reality is a pale reference To our expectations So I will not chide The borrowed time And I bear no envy to such a clime Without the wretched writhing storm.
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