Wanda's Ballad by xaos

I am nothing. . .in my grandmothers eyes
She hasnt seen me in ages
Faceless in disguise of the truth
Amongst the demons Im plagued with
I remember her ivory tone
Shone in the brilliance of a sky-lit embrace
Following the path raptured in a glass
Of a swines lustful taste
Her long meticulous fingers evoked magic
Twirling twines into elaborate blankets
That even the consummate;
Embellished in work
Unearthed a foreshadowing of the hapless
Sapless! My family tree runs dry
Equity in the life of drunk nigh,
Race horses berate courses
Tramplin over their ample worth
Just like my innocent birth
Its like a moment of silence
Where I question the obligation
To lose all potential advantages in the pursuit
of the bottom of the glass Im facing.

One swig

Youve got to relish the artifacts
That are only now admissable
Only timell tell your story
In accordance to its ritual
Habitual is the single adjective proper
to summarize the tragedy.
Dont remind me of fate.

Two swigs

Now I am a refined doctor
I can look at the patient in the mirror,
This time with clarity.
I can diagnose him even clearer
When hes sober and anticipates the night-
This night of few hours and unknown glory,
where you dont need medicine

Three swigs

The donation has set me gone and off!
Lost in Lady Miserys arms
On the sea-coasts where the sulfur makes you cough
over gone onto rocks of plight height.
Compared to the love I will lose,
This isnt a lost hope or done faith.
Im just lodged in one place.

4 swig

Now, if I take another silent step to death
I might trip on my shadows ego
People are feeble, youve got the rest
of my message in a beer bottle (set to sea).
I was homegrown in a box, called Canada
Probably aye why ya cant understand us. .
or maybe its because of Christianity.

5 swig

This is the rare occassion youll hear me speaking
from the heart, in an artful fashion.
Some are slurred words emerged with vomit
but this comet will land in tragic passion
Women are my 15 minutes of fame, every Friday
to Saturday. It isnt a boast,
just the sustained way.

This is the ruptured vein of a sonnet
For every soul that broke my mothers fertility,
Killing me before conceived or sighted.
Thanks, your intentions are still in me.
Cause, the night is young. . .
And I feel like wasting my life tonight.
For my grandmother.