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Rated: · Poetry · Other · #1453061
About the working force.



The wind clashes unto the contours of my face
Every pour etched like the tips of a thousand spears
In a forest of well dressed men
Like the burglar I rob you from your sentiments
From the bright brim smile that hung brightly
I am the criminal
In this wicked earth
In the Gardens of my soul
In the thresholds of your pain
Within the gloom of your twilight.

© Copyright 2008 Xavier Laciviles (parafin at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1453061-Preventer-Wind