Write To This Picture: April '05
 

Write to this picture by Andy Hixon for April:

First time doing this and im bored so here it is..

The hands of earth caress our minds in their fingers
Concreting away all the dreadful events that linger
Rosen from a ground of stone, meant to stand alone
But in my mind we wish that the hand was gone
Away from our thoughts, that they control aggressively
But knowing another hand is near is what is next to me
Another hand to hold me in the air to direct my movement
Fingers of granite, pushing me away from a pain so grueling

But one falls, and the next moment the hand has left
So now the mind of stone, has slowly pained to death
And the other two are alone, sadly grieving in sorrow
Because the hand that left, wont be there tomorrow
The sky turns dark blue, and the tears dry painlessly
The sorrow that was once there, still remains in me
But now my hand has to follow its fingers to a mind
And hope with patience the fragile brain will climb
To a irresistable desolate area of hay and solemn granite
Where the hand is the earth and the mind is the planet.

10 mins not too bad

Minacious faces carved in granite weathered by the elements
While the blatant stares and pointed fingers are simply just irrelevant
Hardened features and chiseled cheeks reflect the landscape
As the ground-dwellers poke fun and ridicule a man's shape
Huddled together, the tenacious trifecta sits in stone silence
While the fourth flawed face lies as a victim of known violence
One turned in shame, the other in the process of retreat
Yet one remains defiant with eyes that can't see defeat

Somber civilians get stoned when the fingers point roughly,
Carving the face, damaging the decrepit superficial's ugly,
Earth sleeps and snores violence, it's drool is the grass,
The sky painting disheveled figures of systems of class,
Homosapiens are dices, being roled by hands of signs,
They will make you see low, fluttery, suddenly, utterly minds,
Protruding through the devil's revelling level of heavenly rebels,
Fallen angels, it's painful, like a car's wheels when the pedals settle,
There can not be a chosen one, unless your the soul survivor,
Webbing like a spider, a viper's infections of suicidal and vital idols,