When I wrote this particular piece, it was one of those
nights where I felt that I was the only one who held all the keys to the
world. Then at second look, I realize it's just more mediocre,
melancholy splurging. Oh well.
The Real (108)
XF
[xf@thewritegallery.com]
Moving pictures glide with thought
the carbon wish to belong
sing a song
the stale memories swim
a gratuitous whim
the courage of the nightman
to walk and never stop
my cardboard woman too loves the night
the bleeding people
happy to let go of a smile
so much style
has the friendly pedophile
so easy to rile
while looking through the moon
I wonder, Where is my shine?
your eyes sublime
I cover with slime
kneeling in shallow pools
of my life
wading through submissive strife
the men who believed too much
so many fallen pawns
My head has made a home
for the deeper ones
Myself,
an onlooker
with the subservient children
coloring the sky with grandeur thoughts
that they don't need to dance in their own heads
give me the real freedom
I ask for nothing more
© 1998 XF, all rights reserved
appears here by permission
Author Notes
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