tommy's ghost
08/31/09, 03:23 PM
This life's a gas pump,
but I still need my matches.
I am the trench coat of dilemmas,
riding on the wings of anemics,
trailing like a ball and chain
of gall and feather-vanes.
A sleigh riding the rows of teeth
of Mephisto's mouth and hospice.
Dwindling as thoughts in a bodice.
Faint as fainting from lack of pontification.
This life's a gas pump.
There's a gentleman outlined
in the stare of gasoline puddles.
I look up as fireflies are birthed
from the vice he wields.
He offers me slow death,
And. I-
but I still need my matches.
I am the trench coat of dilemmas,
riding on the wings of anemics,
trailing like a ball and chain
of gall and feather-vanes.
A sleigh riding the rows of teeth
of Mephisto's mouth and hospice.
Dwindling as thoughts in a bodice.
Faint as fainting from lack of pontification.
This life's a gas pump.
There's a gentleman outlined
in the stare of gasoline puddles.
I look up as fireflies are birthed
from the vice he wields.
He offers me slow death,
And. I-