Ii
You're bent out of shape
There are holes in those shoes that you can not replace.
Gaunt like the tree branch you rode through the storm.
You release your fount of harsh tones
That will surely repreive your sarcastic charisma.
The angst building a citidel of noiselessness inside
The capital refund of your minds unease
As if all spirit inside of you
Has all but deceased.
You are not the jolting entity
You were made out to be
But I see the preson incognito, beneath the flashing neon
Lights of the discotheque that reigns sovereign over
The other androgynous evening rendezvous'.
Don't shroud yourself in the pseudo substantiality
Of your undeniable accomadations.
For who is the creator?
Copyright © Frank Cipriani | Year Posted 2009
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