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@2004
