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Bluesy Socrateaser

Veteran Member

Total Posts: 225
Joined: Thu Feb 26, 2009 6:14 am

Staring out at the crowded masses,
with eyes of cold gray granite,
I strain for a flicker of consciousness.

Sculpted as a labor of love,
with hands that know no humans touch,
I reach for the one who loves me.

Rain disperses those souls of hidden features,
who come on sundays, in the afternoon,
and pray that I can ease their strife.

Wasted as they are, the pitiful wretches,
they are the ones who have a life,
yet come to me for their praises.

Though from me, they believe what is in them,

... that they cannot see without me.

Posted: Sun Mar 01, 2009 11:06 am

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