Visions of a painting

Little child of death and dreams,

What can I tell you?

 

Tanks and mountains

And ragged orphans,

Paint a picture.

And the healing deep within,

Is not ever for sons and daughters.

 

The bite is like a bitter winter

Where demons fly about the frozen sky.

And with black, lucid eyes,

They sweep into the bodies of men.

 

Little child of flowers, and gardens,

And pebbled streets,

You have wounded your own space.

 

Leave,

But do not leave me untamed.

For the blood, it just drips

In the forest

Raising once again, the soldiers,

If I cannot save you.

 

ESP.

Television…For the free.

Evolutionary. Sensitivity.

Why does it all just become….sorcery?

 

So, little child of dreams and death,

The dragon once again sweeps the sky,

With fire from his breath.

 

Why are the warriors sleeping,

Unaware, and dreaming?

The thick, black fog,

Comes creeping,

Bellowing, like a storm upon the sea.

  

Fly away to the mountains,

So I know your path to Utopia is found.

Dragons, and death,

And the war tanks of men,

Just crumbles, into the ground.

 

Ragged child,

The mirror is deceiving,

With no magic receiving.

What can I tell you?

 

2012