Ianaldo Prescott Pourchot Poems

The weary Dancer wakes up,
And she dances,
She walks on her feet.
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Like all poetry
Things don’t make no sense
But one thing is true
I really love you
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O England alone
It is my Lovely home
It is nothing but true
Suns never set on you
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My fingers are as weary,
As the wild rider’s horse.

An endless trail of notes,
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One day I caught a memory
And I let it grow
I spun its little toy crown
And let it go
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What happened?
I… I… am alone here
What is this?
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I’ve heard of heaven.

I heard it has a sound.

But, I have searched,
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Coming out of the depression…
I had nowhere to go
My pa was a shoemaker
And his pa was an oil tycoon
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I strolled among the streets one wintry night.
The streetlight's cloud was spread amongst the sky,
And beside me, a face I believed was shown,
Was only a reminder—that I was alone.
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SHOULD I kill you Gregor?
You are a vermin, a creature.
Thousands of legs, hard shell,
but a beast from the fires of hell!
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