Monday, August 29, 2011

Uncalled for

Upon the winged seat of life,
there lies a wrathful bird.
It caws its way into its lies,
unknown by all who've heard.

A quiet start with thoughts of justice,
annoyance, pain, unmeted words.
It flies in circles and never stops.
Never full; forever stirred.

It calls it's lust as filthy need,
Uncaring words its filthy steeds.

One left to - desperate - justify.
One left with quiet, wat'ring eyes.

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