For an endless taste of pain and glory,
Some men are willing to die;
Next stop for them may be their last,
Through a looking-glass they cast their glance...
All hopes in a frailed moment flash,
Withered blossoms decaying lay in a half-emptied cup,
Mankind drinking the wrath of their own lust,
Souless cold statues made up of clay and of mud
Just an opened door, or a little crack in a vintaged glass,
Now the air sorrowfully mourns upon a fading red rose...
Awaiting a new morn dressed by foggy lengths of gauze,
Somber eyes fearfully stare at the stormy clouds,overhead...
Till the next time,again starts to fall the rain...
Dorian Petersen Potter
aka ladydp2000
copyright@2005-2012