SnAkE oN mY bAcK
snake on the ground slithers. The plains scream out in fear, it slides onto my back and forces out my red tears. into my thought i can now see how foolishly i used to be. I remember the snake on my back and how i remember i should have fought back. The trees dance in scilence the fire now devoures the plains, the snake told me to forget my name. I threw the snake off my back with no sound forcefully it lay dead by the ground. Now i can feel the snake beneath my feet.
poem by Ben Sparaco
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My Single Orange Rose
Here is my prose,
All based on a single orange rose,
Grave grass springing,
Church hyms their singing,
Blood stains clinging,
On my single orange rose,
No soul is laughing,
Deaths hands are clapping,
Coffin case trapping,
On my single orange rose,
Trees are branching,
My cold blank eyes are trancing,
The life cycle of death is dancing,
On my single orange rose,
I picked my final wish,
On deaths lips I kissed,
My long life I missed,
All because of that single orange rose,
COPYRIGHT 2008 BEN SPARACO POEMS
poem by Ben Sparaco
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Orange Sunshine
I feel breath wasting,
As time is pacing on a terrible dream,
When in my coffin my shoes they are lacing,
And with a knife they are tracing,
Here is orange sunshine,
And cataracts caused me to blind,
And death was truly very kind,
I feel this soul,
Waiting I am ready to be lying in a hole,
And orange sunshine swallowed me whole,
Dark circles under my eyes thought to be drawn with coal,
No I wasnt ready,
Coffin holders carry me steady,
My disease wasnt deadly,
For it was only orange sunshine,
COPYRIGHT BEN SPARACO POEMS
poem by Ben Sparaco
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A Secret To Remember
Forever I'll remember you,
Humble your eyes so quaint so blue,
I will forever sit at my window so very true,
Still many memories I have not drew,
I feel so oddly brave,
Still I feel my chest begin to cave,
Even myself im sorry i can not save,
And forever my future will hold a dirt grave,
This promise is not a trick,
And deaths tears soon I must lick,
My final coffin appearence so very slick,
And a story of my death so epic,
They all will not remember,
My death on that cold December,
And a secret so planed and loved so tender,
Is this note you promise to lend her,
COPYRIGHT BEN SPARACO POEMS
poem by Ben Sparaco
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