Curfew is for a few...

Looking for a new rime,
something to bide my time...
the dusk becons me
to the ancient tree...
But I await for the dawn
to realise what I've scrawn
in the previous assumption...
no prisioner for a dungeon
that has not a tall tower,
or a maiden's hair flower...

Walking down downtown,
the old city's king has a crown:
fat and friendly frown,
brushed in burning brown,
the killer keeps on killing,
despite the victim's healing...
and all those tall who call
for his stall and eventual fall...

The artists are thirsty
for the fear of thirty
and all its glories...
new are few stories,
sand grains going slower,
sand grains getting sour...
a new take on flour
and the latest hour...

Looking for landscapes
where the mind escapes
and no longer sees
wide and empty seas...
softly singing sirens
smooth the sick and softens
the dealt velvet
you felt before it melt...
while the pretty tile
wasn't yet volatile bile,
that as a cat, you now spew...
few findings before curfew...