by Medusa
© 2001 B. Howard, all rights reserved
Waiting for white horsesAnd a three piece suit that shines,
A suitcase full of presidents,
A handful of wistful time.
A prayer drifts on a smoky breeze
Up to a scornful horde.
Words too immense to be thought of,
Scribbled on a blank postcard.
These ageless desires, hope misconstrued.
Naked hearts burn in the rain,
Like brave little soldiers, smiling in time
-A recycled prophecy,
A shot glass of shame.
Blinded by the vigil
For a westward setting sun,
That paints the tears a color
Clear destiny is done.
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