"The poet's eye, in fine frenzy rolling, doth glance from heaven to earth, from earth to heaven; and as imagination bodies forth the forms of things unknown, the poet's pen turns them to shapes and gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name."
-William Shakespeare

Wednesday, November 10, 2010

The Search

Begging, pleading, still repeating
Seeking peace; it never ends.
Hearts unknown that turn to stone
Make haste to pray or fall apart.
The search for tender heart is long,
And far too many do it wrong
With wine and women numbing fear.
They laugh and shout and fake their clout
To draw attention from mere men.
Their hearts still dry, they fill their eyes
With tears when no one's looking.
Behind facades, we all applaud
The people that we're choking.

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