Light the kettle

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    Light the kettle

    Light the kettle

    Good morning to the rising firer flies
    Chasing Apollo’s chariot across the skies
    Coordinated like alarms alerting charging cells to another day
    Riddled with monotonous procedural by ways
    The perpetual stream of steadfast hooves
    Shuffling in limbo, shackled to bandwagons
    Has got folks feeling like domesticated concrete jungle mules
    Living the blues, trying to save up enough to buy a horse shoe
    Watching the ticker: grandfather clock spins your digits
    With the Grim reaper behind the picture awaiting to remove your spirit
    It’s the double whammy ticking time bomb terrorist attack
    Be on the winning side, to receive a welcome kick-back
    Or mayhap the cadaver that failed to react like the tardiest bird to miss the biggest catch
    The flood gates burst when the carbon drones awake to plough the fields as on paydays
    And that just on a Monday
    Okay, it’s a five day weekly pledge
    Droids working for the urge to breath yet again
    With loose scruples floating above the thinning edge
    Be poised, nothings ever been cheap
    And don’t be another rat caught in a corner
    Trying to run the race of your life
    To then end up as a trauma ray casualty with a broken spine
    It’s better to keep your shovel in the dirt
    Where accomplishment is duly well earned
    Of course, it stays off-course
    Like thumb sucking prestige with equivocation talk
    I heard that the pearly-gates welcome all
    If so, truly it begs the question whether life after death is resurrection
    Or just a custodianship fantasy for the worker ants living in the slave-ship

    By: Phantom Gargoyle

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    DSLitz commented on Light the kettle

    05-02-2009

    you have a very unique style of writing...i like it!

    fenixmind commented on Light the kettle

    03-13-2009

    Wow amazing phrases and great use of obscure words....

    Phatom

    06/01/2009

    Grin with a stern stance, thanks for the dap

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Phatom’s Poems (23)

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    1st light 1