Things were simpler,
Things were harder.
It was a striking flash of the neon sparks of love,
And the crushing roll of sick hate.
Music rained down from high above,
From the heavens and the rock stars to never abate.
The gods we deemed ungodly,
And the misfits we deemed to be our golden idols,
To stick their hand through the atmosphere and grasp the stars,
With a crush so mighty, so blinding, reaching so fricking high
and to die in a bitter spark.
When drugs and art rumbled through the streets,
To a beat, so sleek, such a freak––
To stand up for what you believe in.
I hear the power that echoed in the insane,
And the fire that burned and diminished in their veins,
Enveloped by a silver mist.
Come here beasts and brethren,
Reminisce about the devil and her mistress,
These are the tales of '87.
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The Ghost of an Echo: A Mad Collection of Mad Poet Poetry
PoetryAn absolutely MAD Collection of Poetry by yours truly. Spiral into outer space and ride rollercoasters of mayhem and wonder. Anxiety is real. It's time we talk about it. New poems every week! #1 in whimsy #4 in fantastical
