Thursday, May 20, 2010

The Crouching Eagle

Under the clouds

The mob set fire
move to the beat
of a broken drum
And street-corners
The fractured homes
Torned by the wind
on winters end
Some dead leaves fall
and bite the dust
Digging their tomb
as years gone past
Few wear their mask
to dodge the truth
Some washed their hands
to save their tooth.
I saw this all
around the clock
And tried to snap
or twist my back.
A trick of thought
of deceitful hell.
Contort me not!
This couching eagle
will stand once more
wings healed,reveal
now watch me soar.

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