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The Man and his Black Steed
A man sees himself in a bathroom window
As pigeons shit on millions of cars
Across the world as we prepare for personalities
That run naked amongst out empty palettes
Painting ideas with barren conclusions.
This race of outs has become weary
Of itself, caught in conundrum cabinets
Locked with the love lost between cracks
Created by the ever exhausting tragedies
Of the quiet ones who lost their voices.
The lions have become tedious of the silent man
Who chats over coffee conversations about thimbles
And pin cushions that keep poking his sides.
But woman listens to the hyms of wisdom
Wishing for him to help her get up.
We have become old in out material bones.
The cartilage of support has been dissolved
Into the many hands that we think we need.
Only to become a person of a perfect species.
A parody of the soil and all its good intent.
But we few shepards bare witness to time
And the man and his black steed as
He chases the fate of the fair-the-well boys.
And they cry for the faults they haven't committed.
And for the silence of the laughter
In the lair of social limbo.
