Wednesday, January 21, 2015

Anonymous writer

Of colors and weirdest thoughts,
Ditching the messiness of the murkiness,
The weary grey winter mornings, 
Years of drunk wanderings.

His quieter eyes,
A shadow haunting in disguise,
Standing with his smoke,
Emerging half forgotten dreams.

When the voices sleep,
The ego of faceless man weeps,
Crumbling inside,
His soul writes.


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