What's that pain in your pocket? Can you feel it in your life? The sharp silver engraved discs, Bring those tears to your eyes, And worries to your heart. Is my pocket just like yours? Can I feel it in my life? My room, it smells of vodka, I awake and feel ill, until I open my window and let your air in. Did I love your last play? Was it as ambitious as your last? Blood on blades, betrayal from the brothers. A silver lining on the heavy lingering cloud, Slowly rusting, as the rain drips through it's orange stained bottom. Have you seen him triumph in battle? Did he confront him about the murder of his brother? Edward was little more than a puppet king, The Norwegian cronies were thrown out, His money grew, but his life stopped growing. Was his window never opened? Didn't he ever catch your air? Only an ill wind blown by skilled stitchers. They've stitched your pockets empty, But your soul is full of greed. Has your tongue got a steel tip? Does it smash our feelings through our hopes? A cheep trick, with the bones of a saint. Strange cold stone arches, sat strong gauging The light into your fist. How can the white suited man stride? How can his hands sit upon his hips? When trees splinter down, not giving paper But a shinning crown at a funeral fit for a king Haunted from a ship of sins.Birth sign: Aquarius
You need to log in to edit this poem if it is yours.
View more poems by Phil Yarborough.