Another poem with an obscure title, although if you just happen to be a word historian, you'll soon figure out what it means.

He paints pictures on canvasses of skin and watches the life bleed out of
them. He stands on a street corner and shines people's shoes, and watches them
laugh. He sits in the cinemas and theatres, eating popcorn, and everything eventually
dies. Dies irae, brother.

She walks the movie scenes with a tripod and flashes the beautiful
men. She strolls along the promenade amongst the blue-eyed blondes
pretending. She kills the lights and drowns her sorrows amongst the rosé
wine. Dies irae, sister.

They hold each others hands and explore the world as a couple
together. They sit on the beach and watch the children build sandcastles of
mud. They drive away towards a setting sun in search of a long-lost
moon. Dies irae, friends.
i like it alot. very good writing there bro, keep it up.
Quote by humperdunk

So I just woke up sitting in my desk chair, with my bong on the desk in a bunch of little pieces and my hand super glued to my penis. Speculations as to what the hell just happened and how to unglue my hand from my member would be appreciated.
I like how the two were Artists in there own field
Then when they meet the children have art in them
Love it. hope you make more