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criminal
January 14, 2009
And what of all the whimsical baubles that life foretold?
You promised the lot of escapades and in the essence of gold
And what shall I think of this barren womb,
Danced by those men who presume?
The key is not one of truth
Nor sympathy of youth
All that we desire is to embrace the polished stars
Yet our greedy arms are blinded by their scars
You promised the lot of escapades and in the essence of gold
I see nothing left of escapades but eternal hate and scold
© Anonymous
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