Category: Writers Block
In sheer terror and with blind desperation, I cry your name aloud. And with fingers weak from sleep's iron grip, I reach for your transparent hand. When met with air black as despair, I again lay and let sleep claim me. For in the dream together we dance and sing the melody strong.
Golden sunset with fingers aflame, casts shadows through the leaves, as whispers of those from another relm weave stories through the breeze. And by a river lit by glittering stone hand in hand we write our verse, you and I in perfect harmony; melody, motion, and word.
Fallen angels shed their tears in the rain misting your face. And with your smile there comes the laughter, a comforting embrace. Now sing to me fair musician, brave warrior and devoted lover. For soon shall come the awakening, Cruel time, capritious fait!
I liked it very gothic.
Cala, the poem was awesone, as all yours are. I loved it soo much.
It had a ring to it. Loved the rhyme.
part II now, this shall be a series, hopefully and this poem has nothing to do with the first.
A tear, glittering silver in the fading summer light; the evanescing sound of crystalized laughter haunts me. The remnence of a shattered dream still cling to my mind, unwilling to die, determined never to be forgotten as are you.
Ahh, you, so proud and confident in your every word, as if you are superior over God and all man. I once believed that of you; once held you in the highest honor but that was then.
Then. Passion laced the summer air and naivety shrouded all in a vail of innocence. Heavens created with the written word, dreams born and logic cast aside, that fleeting paradice made the fall that much more fatal.
You! Bane of my existance and solid evidence of my stupidity, I resent your every draw of breath now, curse every word you still write to me for I can't help but remember "the river." And I, who was I to think you better than the rest, just because you followed my poetry? Simply because I couldn't see the mortal shallowness you denied?
I write about you still, vailing and twisting the truth into some semblence of poetic format because I simply can't be rid of you. But you, the apidamy of ordinary superficial perfection, never think for a moment that I remember you with any melancholy. It was not you but your words, 'twas not your voice but your attentiveness, and chance after chance you had! Reaching out to touch fire as I once did remember?I see you and reality both for what truly exists and believe me, the sight is not at all pleasing.