He is rich with imagination
poor with function and ability
he has no canvas, no paints
just his bible to lead the way

he hold his faith tight
as if a loaded gun
cocked aimed and ready to kill

he speaks of purple mountains majesties
grey skies to blue
the golden light to lead the way
and judgement day for me and you

he sits with his shadow watching his
realities inside an electric window, alone

the yesterdays are nice, mostly comfortable
today is a reality it is the raw whiskey on
his virgin tounge.

Posted by bbeard on 11/19 at 02:43 PM in Poetry

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