[untitled]

this was pretty vaguely written. it was spontaneous.

body and mind anchored down to earth
forces the lost to suffer in eternal contempt;
imagination soaring was its only plea,
and to relinquish is one's lament.

ideas sprout like the arms of a tree,
branching out to connect with someone;
in lingering moments, some thoughts aren't free,
but that hasn't stopped the progress,
the translucent face of the wanton.

split for freedom, clear thinking, an attempt:
but luminous sparks, ideas once afloat
are sent crashing down in hellish pits,
cast by many, adorned with idle gloat.

and so the tales hereto devised
by the young man Arised
were left for leagues to squander;
and many more were left for us,
many tales more left to ponder:

roses are crimson, violets are ever so blue,
both are flowers, but they bathe in colors:
they captivate liars under their mesmerizing hues;
how such beauty takes the life of yet another.

yet i find wrenches jammed in opening verses
forcing the one suffering a loss to stop and think.
only a cursory glance allows her to see things diverse,
like pictures of familiarity all around, all with a blink.
this is seen, and strained bounds elicit a want for wings.
what is perfect among a deathbed of broken dreams?

impatience ripping at warm wanting flesh, i beg
my wife, my love, my all, every, always, and any;
standing at a loss of illusions, halting symphonies.
if this work is a dud, we'll go on with the dregs.

i beg, look to the sky during the setting eastern sun,
think of our future, our faith, our love and children;
the means to ends, and beginnings standing to be undone
if the foundation crumbles and fills all the holes in.
eighty-one days seems like a very long wait.

 

Reviews

[Kimmee Jean]

i like it...but i kinda dont get it