Make it Work

Present to me the flowing leisure bound to my wish.
We roar together, under the sour,
Above the shimmer of moons.
We fight the sunshine- not festive,
What worth?
To curse.
Flee; you're powerless.
Flee; your legs- powerless.
Stairs stamp.
It echoes around us.
You seek my light? Not equal.
My pleasure?
Burn it.
My glory?
Not equal, not festive, but mine.
Powerless.





Post a Comment

Be the first to comment on this article!

bRealTime banner ad on the left side
Site Feedback