Moonshadow
New member
PSEUDOSHIRE, FAKESVILLE
Pseudo people everywhere.
Walking around with their hands held high
Trying to look like they just don't care
If only they knew they're not really there.
Castles built on pseudo dreams
Stretch their arms upto the sky
To make you think they're what they seem
But you're the lone player on a plastic team.
They want to buy my clouds with gold.
To put them in their pseudo rooms.
In asphalt jungles, schemes unfold
You wonder when you got so old.
But just you wait, I'll keep my sky.
My clouds, my dreams, my brilliant stars.
'Cause all their money can never buy
The glory of my sun on high.
-Moonshadow
NIGHT
The mists of twilight float away
Velvet blackness shrouds the hill.
Shadowed fingers point the way
The puff of wind this night blows chill.
The moon slides up an inky sky
To flood the moors with ghostly light.
The stillness of the witching hour,
Broken by a barn owl's flight.
Weeping willows gently reach
Their dainty fingers to the lake.
Deep in a magic, silver, sleep.
Leave tiny ripples in their wake.
A piercing silence all pervades
And the wind blows colder.
Gossamer clouds scud across the sky,
Dew upon their shoulder.
The moon begins to set again
With dawns approaching light.
My thoughts- a canvass graced with
The eerie beauty of the night.
-Moonshadow
Pseudo people everywhere.
Walking around with their hands held high
Trying to look like they just don't care
If only they knew they're not really there.
Castles built on pseudo dreams
Stretch their arms upto the sky
To make you think they're what they seem
But you're the lone player on a plastic team.
They want to buy my clouds with gold.
To put them in their pseudo rooms.
In asphalt jungles, schemes unfold
You wonder when you got so old.
But just you wait, I'll keep my sky.
My clouds, my dreams, my brilliant stars.
'Cause all their money can never buy
The glory of my sun on high.
-Moonshadow
NIGHT
The mists of twilight float away
Velvet blackness shrouds the hill.
Shadowed fingers point the way
The puff of wind this night blows chill.
The moon slides up an inky sky
To flood the moors with ghostly light.
The stillness of the witching hour,
Broken by a barn owl's flight.
Weeping willows gently reach
Their dainty fingers to the lake.
Deep in a magic, silver, sleep.
Leave tiny ripples in their wake.
A piercing silence all pervades
And the wind blows colder.
Gossamer clouds scud across the sky,
Dew upon their shoulder.
The moon begins to set again
With dawns approaching light.
My thoughts- a canvass graced with
The eerie beauty of the night.
-Moonshadow
