Stuff I post. It is a stream, sometimes conscious, sometimes subconscious and sometimes unconscious.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Dregs
Dregs
The sun it hides behind the smog
Afraid to nurture anymore
The streams now laugh in dark humor
And birds are but for urban carrion
The seasons have turned schizophrenic
Their pass bereft of identity
We have never built, merely destroyed
We are guilty of raping
Our mother
We have milked her dry,
And now we are wasted
In the rot that remains
In the dregs
That are but a reflection
Of men
Victims not of circumstance
As the make themselves to be
But that of their decadence
And being a part of the antimovement
Is just not
My cup of tea
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