This Is No Song
Isn't boredom is its own birth of freedom
In this antebellum age
I have fashions of a vision
That I could put to page
I need to rage against
This dying of the dream
To etch on ancient canyon walls
And sound my barbaric scream
The seductiveness of my antimuse
Slithers through my brain
As she intones, saturated
Yours is a pedestrian pain
This is no song
My angel of inert imagination tells me
What if she's not wrong
Why else should she whisper it so loudly
Copyright © Andrew Jacob Jung | Year Posted 2016
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