Author's Note: Hello everyone! Well, here's a poem I wrote on a fragment of inspiration, and I rather enjoy reading it. But, if you don't, please, give constructive criticism. I know people, including myself, who hate people who do not justify their criticism, and, really, it makes you look like an idiot. So, please, justify! Thank you!
Disclaimer: And eight 'o clock Tuesday turns to nine, and there I sit, for the ownership of House I pine. (So that's a no.)
The Final Impulse Sacrificed
Day by day
Night by night
He surrenders to impulse
Without a fight
Jaded hearts
Curtains drawn
Vulnerable as
Life at dawn
Life in a bottle
Of any kind
Will throttle the heart
And murder the mind
He drowns in hot air
And breathes in cool waters
There is blood when he saves
Not when he slaughters
He touches bone
And stone
With the palm of his hand
Doesn't touching death
Make him feel grand?
And now he sits by the window
Watching the sunset
With gun in hand, the wind whispers,
'You're not ready yet.'
And day by day
Night by night
He surrenders to impulse
Without a fight
But not tonight
(But not tonight.)