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Posted by Bluesy Socrateaser on Sun Mar 01, 2009 11:06 am
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Staring out at the crowded masses,
<br />with eyes of cold gray granite,
<br />I strain for a flicker of consciousness.
<br />
<br />Sculpted as a labor of love,
<br />with hands that know no humans touch,
<br />I reach for the one who loves me.
<br />
<br />Rain disperses those souls of hidden features,
<br />who come on sundays, in the afternoon,
<br />and pray that I can ease their strife.
<br />
<br />Wasted as they are, the pitiful wretches,
<br />they are the ones who have a life,
<br />yet come to me for their praises.
<br />
<br />Though from me, they believe what is in them,
<br />
<br />... that they cannot see without me.
<br />
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