Alexander III
07-17-2010, 06:17 PM
There is a forgotten forest
With an aged stream
Which never stops flowing
Every night a boy sits by the stream
His hair, rebellious and greasy
His face, like a delinquent cherub
His eyes, vast and drunken with desire
He sings wild melodies in intoxicated tones
He powders the leaves azure and vermillion
Green laughter fumbles from the weary boulders
Robbins hiccup tiny stars and nightingales enchant the air with a secret magic
The sky is woven with bright blushing cheeks
Two roving stags race above the tree tops
Their hoofs drifting an aroma of crushed berries and flowers
Which paint the forest with the livery of Life
The boy is the flute of Dreams
Every night the boy prances across the stars
And sings his memoirs to the stream
The stream never listens or speaks
Its flows silently, licked silver by the moonlight
Which trickles unsteadily and spills on the boy
Laving him of the bitter notes of his life
The stream never listens or speaks
Yet every night, he is there, calm and tender eyed
Writing his tale across the ripples in the water
Till the sun awakes with a wide yawn
And the boy limps to his house
His flute so tipsy he cannot walk
With an aged stream
Which never stops flowing
Every night a boy sits by the stream
His hair, rebellious and greasy
His face, like a delinquent cherub
His eyes, vast and drunken with desire
He sings wild melodies in intoxicated tones
He powders the leaves azure and vermillion
Green laughter fumbles from the weary boulders
Robbins hiccup tiny stars and nightingales enchant the air with a secret magic
The sky is woven with bright blushing cheeks
Two roving stags race above the tree tops
Their hoofs drifting an aroma of crushed berries and flowers
Which paint the forest with the livery of Life
The boy is the flute of Dreams
Every night the boy prances across the stars
And sings his memoirs to the stream
The stream never listens or speaks
Its flows silently, licked silver by the moonlight
Which trickles unsteadily and spills on the boy
Laving him of the bitter notes of his life
The stream never listens or speaks
Yet every night, he is there, calm and tender eyed
Writing his tale across the ripples in the water
Till the sun awakes with a wide yawn
And the boy limps to his house
His flute so tipsy he cannot walk