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Best Poems Written by Brandon Molton

Below are the all-time best Brandon Molton poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Lion/Dragon

Slip through the cracks of the jungle,
Crawl onto the innocent,
Slither through the liquid,
Scaly snake of folklore tales.
Maim and kill the men,
Of which God made first,
They'll kill the Lion/Dragon,
Before the next verse.

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The Dead Orchid

My spirit walks the graveyard,
The music sickly sweet,
My tomb is coated with my shroud,
Folded so neat.
The flower of the mourners,
Left in the wind,
One stays dry and cold,
The Orchid , the flower of sin.
The sobering touch of autumn,
Sweeping my soul away,
The rain will soon pass,
All I pray is to stay.

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Jun

Tales of the scholars speak noble words,
Of the mistress of the earth,
Crying tears on those who implore,
About those who have the gift of birth.
She'll whisper and talk,
With a lonely seduction,
Holding the clouds in her bosom,
Hoping and hugging with her stomach.
She will hope and wish,
When the time it takes,
Walking and talking,
Until her water breaks.

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Akira

Over the sun, the robed angel,
She sat on her giant throne,
Turning the days with her soft hand,
Her ring would reflect onto the eyes.
Of her followers as they watched her,
She sat many milleniums turning,
The day to night, but the cruelty of man,
Left the blonde seraphim ravished.
She fell off her high throne,
She plunged into the ocean,
And left a rainbow in her wake.

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Cafe'

The road inside the house,
Ready to spell the book,
Leaning against the brick,
Humble as he took.
Praises the people made,
Of the prince of the ward,
Hatred formed inside his heart,
Plowing the craze from the pen to the sword.

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Yin

The light of the white angel,
Venus or the fly,
Daughter of the symbol,
Living or to die.

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Parade of Ghosts

Leaping to the mind,
The hatred kills the sane,
Leaping back on their soapbox,
Spoke of the devil's bane.
Hooded wolfs bleed to the ranks of angels,
They speak and boasts,
Marching through the dead of night,
Are the parade of ghosts.

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Piano Product 70

Melodies of the mistrals,
Finger and the cuts,
Were fancy so fancy,
Keying the right notes.
Costumes of the dead,
Scrape and moan,
Against their lonely piano,
Singing and ringing their bells.
Seventy songs lay in a row,
Of choosing which to play,
The rhyme of the chime,
Of playing night to day.

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Yang

The shadow of the ebony angel,
Seducing the world with gold,
Beautiful the deity is,
Shaped with a dark mold.