Submissions by staggerlee
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
No redemption
I wander the hills
Where the wild winds blow
And curse the gods for their tyranny
Is their vengeance fair or just
For the lies i told
And names i curse
Now my feet are sinking in the mire
My heart is screaming
And my head is on fire
The whole world stops and stares
And whispers gently
There's no redemption here
Where the wild winds blow
And curse the gods for their tyranny
Is their vengeance fair or just
For the lies i told
And names i curse
Now my feet are sinking in the mire
My heart is screaming
And my head is on fire
The whole world stops and stares
And whispers gently
There's no redemption here
124 reads
5 Comments
The lake at night
I cast a tear
For what is won and lost
And all that lies in between
I throw a stone
Down to the deep
Where fat plke
Cruise with murderous intent
A midnight mist
Descends from the heavens
That crawls
Like lazy apparitions
Across torn moonlight reflections
Them faraway trees
are a sinister shape
And the call of the wild
warns of crisis ahead
Soon I'm swallowed
By the spectral haze
Where the ghosts of the living
Talk to the dead
For what is won and lost
And all that lies in between
I throw a stone
Down to the deep
Where fat plke
Cruise with murderous intent
A midnight mist
Descends from the heavens
That crawls
Like lazy apparitions
Across torn moonlight reflections
Them faraway trees
are a sinister shape
And the call of the wild
warns of crisis ahead
Soon I'm swallowed
By the spectral haze
Where the ghosts of the living
Talk to the dead
81 reads
0 Comments
The wishful soldiers
Here they come,
Them wild eyed innocent boys
Marching down tree lined streets,
with guns aloft and terrified smiles.
The crowd cheers and spill their blood
And scream with patriotic delight.
But I feel isolated,
A stranger watching with alien eyes,
Wondering where are the rich man's sons.
The white shirt and silk tie brigade.
For they will be never on Baghdad lanes,
When the bullets starts to rain.
Now I know what it means;
when you got nothing but a pocketful of dreams.
Them wild eyed innocent boys
Marching down tree lined streets,
with guns aloft and terrified smiles.
The crowd cheers and spill their blood
And scream with patriotic delight.
But I feel isolated,
A stranger watching with alien eyes,
Wondering where are the rich man's sons.
The white shirt and silk tie brigade.
For they will be never on Baghdad lanes,
When the bullets starts to rain.
Now I know what it means;
when you got nothing but a pocketful of dreams.
98 reads
3 Comments
DU Poetry : Submissions by staggerlee