That lures Saints to eternity.
The Writer's Soul
Poetry.
The remorseless
cacophony of sentient
lives. A tale of woe
in an exotic
portrayal.
Poetry is the sardonic truths of a Writer's heart.
The barest secrets and darkest truths.
Beauty contained with psychotic phrasing.
Passion depicted in a most bestial form progression.
Poetry.
The glacial
tombstone that will
forever mark the
inglorious incredulity
of the most sacred
of all
silent opus'.
The Writer's Soul.
The Crystal
The crystal, frosted.
A tear slides through.
A small trail
kissing its way against
innocent dew.
Cool, icy, warm.
Lips, blue with thirst,
sweet aridity arises.
A bubble seeks escape
and alludes
The silent roar
Of a waterfall
imagined.
The crystal clears.
Tears cascade inside.
And the woman drinks her fill.
Butterflies Flight
Soft wings fluttered, dancing on the sky.
Dusted black with sapphires of blue,
that twinkled and shimmered while it did fly.
Another, silver stars and golden hued,
found it's way to the starry sky.
Souls of the beloved, the missing, the lost.
Misting as faeries, heralded above.
Those that gave their all to fight.
Are honored by our faithful love,
and awarded the majesty of butterflies flight.
And I Shall Say to Myself
And I said to myself,
I have one life to live,
Only one soul to share, a short time to be,
and one heart to give.
And I thought to myself,
There is only one me.
And my time has flown so fast,
That even the years, can no longer flee.
And I smiled to myself,
and looked upon the deeds of my past.
and realized ,with a fond memory,
That my life was full to the last.
And throughout it all,
I had one life to live,
one soul, that I shared, time lived, not just for me.
And a heart that was mine, as I also did give.
And this did I silently say to myself,
As I smiled upon the close of oneself.
Rhythm of the Ages
Faster, Slower, so deafening, this beat.
Never stopping, never ceasing, on and on it goes.
With thunder, with passion, with heat.
It will never stay its flows.
Healthy, Sick, Young, Old.
And on and on you see.
You feel, you sense, untold.
This rhythm of the ages.
Love's Remembrance
Wrinkled brows that remembrance doth desert,
lips that kissed once with passion,
age now cooler makes.
Shaking hands, veins coursing blue,
what once grasped in strength with fervored delight.
Silvered hair that once shone
with inflamed highlights to the celestial gods above.
Love does linger,
softly in the ever-slowing heart,
though that which love once remembered
does depart.
About the Author
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