They stand firm, swaying in midair
once more being manhandled by fate
all the good ones oppose them, the rebels
they are being crowded with beauty
poked with good intents
symphonies of bluebells, out to appeal
the musical notes resound to no avail
as do the colour-plays of sunsets
they stand firm, crowded and poked
stubborn people, out to stop misery
beauty is not the currency for cowardice
they stand firm, don't budge from the truth
misery is misery, a potion of beauty doesn't heal it
drill the ugliness, exhibit it without embellishments
these shrill voices hold more beauty than bluebells
Originally Posted On Site: 2009-07-27 03:10:54
Last Login: 05.22.12
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