Climb the highest mountain, punch the face of god
That ghost ain't holy
A scream to bleeding ears.
A blade to silver cords,
Cutting crimson dares into
The dying blue.
Butterflies painting hope
Upon spotty mirrors,
Let's follow the trail to
Rushing greed, and swallow the
Moon beams with vigor.
Bone-white smiles
Taunt us from within the grave.
I dream of being an oak tree,
Something strong and sturdy but
You dream of being a rose,
Something delicate and beautiful.
9-1-10
A blade to silver cords,
Cutting crimson dares into
The dying blue.
Butterflies painting hope
Upon spotty mirrors,
Let's follow the trail to
Rushing greed, and swallow the
Moon beams with vigor.
Bone-white smiles
Taunt us from within the grave.
I dream of being an oak tree,
Something strong and sturdy but
You dream of being a rose,
Something delicate and beautiful.
9-1-10
Comment On This Poem --- Vote for this poem
That ghost ain`t holy
That ghost ain`t holy
