Bebo

Hoofdstukken lezen

	The Coachman
	The Coachman By Austin E. Bugler White roses at my door... Petals washed to the street and down a darkened drain, Who should care to adore... Will be swept away by the very same rain, Colder than the depths of winter... With more fury than a woman scorned, Is the shield which protects me, From the glares of all the lovers I've mourned. All the patrionising onlookers talk with such great pity of me, Without a vessel for which my love to bestow. Why should something like that ever rouse an interest with me? When I disposed of all my cares so many many years ago. Cares of love and cares of the world, Trying to decyfer all the absurd, Whilst flapping my wings franticly like a flaming bird, Leaving smoke trails where I had been through, Grabbing so much attention but not really being heard. Take this not as a cry for help, But as an assertion of my own altitude, To all the people who have left such deep foot prints on my back, This is my personal gratitude. Like a mothers arms are shaped to hold a baby so gentle and delicately, and a dying mans view of the world is skewed to help him cope, My eyes are out of focus and my hand knows to shape the ink any differently, would be to broadcast a ode of an intense love ....but one of false hope. The End
Dit verhaal beoordelen >>>