(no subject)
The walls of the cathedral are like a silent overture.
It's uppermost corridors are haunted by the hunchback of nothing.
At it's base lay some drunks who are as small as the mammoth structure next to them intends.
And their intentions are of gambling with a few bottles of gin. After that, the winner forgets he won and the loser remembers until tomorrow.
A well to do man turns up his nose at the sight of them but he can still smell all of that gin.
And on the other side a child's smile looks just like a white fence. And his father doesn't smile anymore, and his mother still recovers from finance's echoes and tired weeknights.
On this side no one could smell the gin, just a subtle aroma that came from the chimneys of houses without hearts.
And another homeless man sits on a box with a lute made of old maple.
He keeps on playing a song he wrote before he got old. And in between the verses chimes the worn passion that doesn't need waiters or maids.
And his voice quivers from pushing it too hard when he should have been pushing a plow.
The man is between the gin and the houses, his neck is stiff from looking towards places he didn't go.
So he keeps on playing a song he wrote before he got old and he keeps on saying things that are soaked with impossible optimism.
But before he goes to bed he looks back and forth once more and dozes into a shred of satisfaction.
It's uppermost corridors are haunted by the hunchback of nothing.
At it's base lay some drunks who are as small as the mammoth structure next to them intends.
And their intentions are of gambling with a few bottles of gin. After that, the winner forgets he won and the loser remembers until tomorrow.
A well to do man turns up his nose at the sight of them but he can still smell all of that gin.
And on the other side a child's smile looks just like a white fence. And his father doesn't smile anymore, and his mother still recovers from finance's echoes and tired weeknights.
On this side no one could smell the gin, just a subtle aroma that came from the chimneys of houses without hearts.
And another homeless man sits on a box with a lute made of old maple.
He keeps on playing a song he wrote before he got old. And in between the verses chimes the worn passion that doesn't need waiters or maids.
And his voice quivers from pushing it too hard when he should have been pushing a plow.
The man is between the gin and the houses, his neck is stiff from looking towards places he didn't go.
So he keeps on playing a song he wrote before he got old and he keeps on saying things that are soaked with impossible optimism.
But before he goes to bed he looks back and forth once more and dozes into a shred of satisfaction.