When poisons are sweet; Bitter twisted, transformed Into colours alive, Pink, yellow, orange. And a pen scratches names One after one again But these people won’t scream They won’t come to their end, They’ll be given new minds To bring them new thoughts To fall in love with bland Sand-covered rocks, To forget what is art, To belie their own hearts, To become remiss Is the sought-after bliss, And I love to be named By these things that I do By people and rocks, For I love stones too.
nice one...last four lines, just pure poetry. especially the "And I love to be named/By these things that I do" line...amazing bit of wordplay there. cheers.
