-
Traverse;
counting the spots
on a Luna Moth.
Simply agonarchs
when it comes to the broth.
Grasping the dirge,
but under the urge
to percieve the brush
as a coming of ages.
Ruffian;
cleaving the dogma
of our formal prada;
lovely fools
of a blemished armada.
Grappling a saddle
and branding the cattle.
Like inimical preemies
that have yet to be born
unto our world of circadian -ides.
- by Master Raine |
- Poetry And Lyrics
- | Submitted on 06/22/2009 |
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- Title: The -ides of Man
- Artist: Master Raine
- Description: About our world of violent disputes between the world in general
- Date: 06/22/2009
- Tags: ides
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