Monday, April 25, 2011
She loves those sailors of the holy deep,
To go is too much of this blade that hurts,
My distant scene is loved by those alerts,
This life misreads and damns the rest asleep.
I cheaply date this point as early keep,
May work destroy us in the small efforts,
I can not see the dust that one converts,
To be a book I laugh and not then weep.
This time destroys me after those that stray,
I wonder fast along the way of rights,
My doom ignites the present on this path.
This anger seems to disappoint away,
The smoking ape designs and blows backbites,
For quick and dangerously absurd wrath.