Retlaw
02-09-2008, 02:27 AM
This is a piece of a poem I am working on let me know what you think
Expression 1
Upon a rocky mountain top at dawn he craved, begged,
for one taste.
Claiming it’s time the sun injected him, ergot, his eye maced.
Shot from the mountain he descended into darkness,
his heart raced.
Though he instinctively attempted to grasp, all he touched dissolved.
Falling further soft delusion embraced him.
Delicate footsteps tread on a withered ear which resonated the sound of a scene
A dim fire flickers under a bridge, briefly giving sight to distorted gutter-native faces.
Reverberating in the minds of the bums was the gnarly needle thumb and its orgasmic poison.
The mutter of die was the only sound that surmounted the wish wash of the cars above.
Click clack, snake eyes.
Tasting the bottom of the bottle, a nihilist sighs,
has a demonic revelation in his drunkenness and dies.
Echoing in his empty head are the sounds of desert cries,
and burning in his lifeless eyes is the infernal of American pies.
Bathed in uncertain noise, a tunnel through one crosses the river Styx and exits on six.
On the horizon of five Christ is revealed to be alive. Through a door marked four Huxley greets him.
The one deviates into two, brings much bad news. The gravity of the Trinity embraces you and me.
Expression 1
Upon a rocky mountain top at dawn he craved, begged,
for one taste.
Claiming it’s time the sun injected him, ergot, his eye maced.
Shot from the mountain he descended into darkness,
his heart raced.
Though he instinctively attempted to grasp, all he touched dissolved.
Falling further soft delusion embraced him.
Delicate footsteps tread on a withered ear which resonated the sound of a scene
A dim fire flickers under a bridge, briefly giving sight to distorted gutter-native faces.
Reverberating in the minds of the bums was the gnarly needle thumb and its orgasmic poison.
The mutter of die was the only sound that surmounted the wish wash of the cars above.
Click clack, snake eyes.
Tasting the bottom of the bottle, a nihilist sighs,
has a demonic revelation in his drunkenness and dies.
Echoing in his empty head are the sounds of desert cries,
and burning in his lifeless eyes is the infernal of American pies.
Bathed in uncertain noise, a tunnel through one crosses the river Styx and exits on six.
On the horizon of five Christ is revealed to be alive. Through a door marked four Huxley greets him.
The one deviates into two, brings much bad news. The gravity of the Trinity embraces you and me.