The tongue is burning, now is fire,
All is fire.
We are salting after pillage,
Hording up the gold of the global village,
Sighing what is to come,
Burned by the future and the rhythms of the sun.
Dry rain beats like acid beads
To heat our blood nd burn our needs.
This is madness.
Alone one seats in tweads their golden
throne of sadness.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment