Post by Prophet on Apr 5, 2011 8:51:23 GMT -8
Bus Ride
So there you sit,
beautiful girl,
lost in those words,
which have trapped you
in their mental world.
Shades of blue cover your eyes,
and a butterfly symmetrically
sprawls across your chest.
How I wish that I could know you.
How lonely life is, in the shadows.
Tommy Hilfiger honeycomb girl,
we, on the other hand,
have made eye contact,
while your li’l bro
sits by your side, as you talk
to the family members
of your generation,
Words about those,
whose ears shall never
hear my thoughts and ramblings,
unload the cripples,
Transfer to the fourteen,
though the bus is the same.
I hear the voice
of the butterfly dog-tag girl,
with the piercing
through her eyebrow,
and it’s almost soothing,
calming, comfortable,
as the elderly board the bus
and the children stare off
into the worlds of
their imagination, so
The children stare at me,
for they might know,
but my truth shant be known by any generation
but X, Y and Z.
X is the eternal
expletive variable
Y is for You, Youth,
Years Ever Passing
The X is Female
The Y is Male
Z is the generation
of Zion, the
blessed children
of a new millennium,
For the next
thousand years
Those children of Zion
shall be the
spiritual warriors
Who shall fight the
greater evils of
those who oppress
and suppress positivity,
and evolution,
The zombie makers
shall be slain,
and the world
shall sprout again
in their blood of
de-evolving madness,
But a cog, in the
wheel that is Mekanos,
Metal is Forever,
but if the machine is meant
for torture and pain,
it shall be broken,
And the mechanics of
this bus brought me
downtown to wreak
the havoc of magic
and naturally cosmic wonder
So there you sit,
beautiful girl,
lost in those words,
which have trapped you
in their mental world.
Shades of blue cover your eyes,
and a butterfly symmetrically
sprawls across your chest.
How I wish that I could know you.
How lonely life is, in the shadows.
Tommy Hilfiger honeycomb girl,
we, on the other hand,
have made eye contact,
while your li’l bro
sits by your side, as you talk
to the family members
of your generation,
Words about those,
whose ears shall never
hear my thoughts and ramblings,
unload the cripples,
Transfer to the fourteen,
though the bus is the same.
I hear the voice
of the butterfly dog-tag girl,
with the piercing
through her eyebrow,
and it’s almost soothing,
calming, comfortable,
as the elderly board the bus
and the children stare off
into the worlds of
their imagination, so
The children stare at me,
for they might know,
but my truth shant be known by any generation
but X, Y and Z.
X is the eternal
expletive variable
Y is for You, Youth,
Years Ever Passing
The X is Female
The Y is Male
Z is the generation
of Zion, the
blessed children
of a new millennium,
For the next
thousand years
Those children of Zion
shall be the
spiritual warriors
Who shall fight the
greater evils of
those who oppress
and suppress positivity,
and evolution,
The zombie makers
shall be slain,
and the world
shall sprout again
in their blood of
de-evolving madness,
But a cog, in the
wheel that is Mekanos,
Metal is Forever,
but if the machine is meant
for torture and pain,
it shall be broken,
And the mechanics of
this bus brought me
downtown to wreak
the havoc of magic
and naturally cosmic wonder