Up close the wall ancient in Greek mythology, legends lived here before Christ.
The hands of a photographer touches the cold rocks, seeking the humanity that shivers through his casual wear.
The River Island has seen all but the fashion travelling the Waterstones.
The Apollo hero shows his lyre music it lives with Egyptian Pharaohs, your long gone history reminds me of Cleopatra VII, this stone shape and form of the lands best plague.
Black love existed on hard shells of our love making vows.
We existed like lost blankets finding our homes through the cave ages.
When poverty hit us like a heat wave, we blended the interior designs of mosaic tribes.
Civil war struck the Sierra Loreane grounds.
Heritage to African gods holding spears up most high, they are warriors.
Closer to many edges of prime, The Lion King is roaring the rolling stones to Kingdom Come.
They pick up where they left off, they contemplate the puzzles that confuse elder souls.
No growth of wings spreads their freedom to Western civilization swings.
Carved patterns reminds the Shakespeare sonnet's rose in tattooed Greek.
Imagine Athens looking so heavenly, clean as the skyscrapers of Detroit.
Dreams followed the New York Times to your Times Square.
She walked to the intimate tome stones, written in bloodshot scriptures.
It struck her fragile spirit that wanted to wish on hope for the lost people.
The soft clays that hold up Zimbabwe tools of crafty men.
Their bones wanted palette scoops of Australian sands, that forecast forthcoming pioneers to the self centred.
The African art expels misguided straws that came up from bamboos.
Humans wish to ignore the treasons they seek in holy gods, myths that gave birth to realism through disguised thoughts and feelings.
Build up colonies want nothing but the enslaved folks.
Stories go stone to stone that captures sings of storyboards.
Strip the dignity that holds respect to colour decency.
Pebbles fade fatigues it's lost the remainder of gems.
Chaos emeralds hold power like flaming torches were handled by champions.
Running blind light on steps to greatness, it's getting dimmer he drops his light of greatness.
There are followers of Ghanaians running dirt through Hercules sandals.
They grow musketeers through their elephant tusks, walking this land development exists.
It needs your attention for a second.
It needs your leadership to guide your artistic greatness.
It wants your visitors to cling on this obsessed treasures lost underground.
It wants your life story in tome stones, your history in the makings will prevail the rocks into quicksand.
Make my living legend a rock star, I want nothing less for jogging jacks of red souls.
Sleeping like none of your business.
I am drenched through cloud waters that take my thoughts on the road to Hermes.
Run with the messenger, call the old rocks old timers they've lived that life.
Now it's ancient and no one remembers the marks of greatness, slogans written like hieroglyphics printed your wisdom.
They will guide you, open the narrow minds of those closed in the dark.
