There was a life here once

There was a life here once

a life I still remember 

reaching back towards a basement of dreams

Reaching out into the last of freedom

and farther still, into the wilderness

There was adolescence bound to one

and a sense from pride to pride

We were never the first to build  on this,

but far were we the last

for who could turn the house to home

then simply turn away

More from lack gives from trying 

more from warmth comes the  sun,

ions freed from ions 

crackling into absence over light

There was a life full within these walls

and the dreams were far beyond November

a solace of sorts, but by not by these hands alone

As we were those lights of trappings

There was time enough of spring

time enough, north of wild roots of daisies

wherever they should grow

Enough would grow for the fresh our cut blades 

a love within the turning

as soon came the seeds in all our losses,

until eventually 

everything unwilling 

There was a life here once

curled into a stone colored hive

It was more than just foolish roots, 

as roots will grow and wane till neverending

what was ours, wasn't life enough forgiving 

As most we gave well into the laughter

till winds would knock, the raffle and the last of

thought 

We made choices in the blending of our furry

love in the daring rapture of dusk

till illusion became our plenty

 

But never these hearts could return

The sets of wings were bound together

through the madness in old beginning

dry stones hued in weathered branches and

lazy blue corruption grew our deadly river,

marked by the melted stars

There was life  here once 

though many of night would end

Do not speak our time as otherwise

or believe this too divine

lies live twice the life than oblivious truth

And what is it, this meagerness spoken

this morality made by cruelty 

the simplicity of goodbye

Even the sand dreams of life 

and this I still remember 

starving for the want in us, 

If I steered our astrasy 

it was believing in such worlds too high

I followed a dream into my tomb

the promise broken was of my own 

Though there was life and and complete surrender once

I always have remembered

but faith is a foolish gold and twice the fire come whiskey, 

The marks soon turned to bruise

and bruises into hubris, 

each as easily cut, but not by just the many

We held a darkness in the daylight

and gave of black where together we belonged

never knowing how soon this life would come

How easily winter wings can grow as they can crumble

down into the silence, colder than the darkest black ice snow ~

Author's Note

WIP...thank you all for such patience and for not knowing, even now I nave finished this one, I could only hope the answer is no but hopefully, it will end the same as Whitman's Death Bed Edition of his Leaves of Grass.. a veryt talll order indeed ;)

Reviews

[knighngale]

hello, dear, it is a juxtoposition of two bewildering things, and that's the basement and ground. You entrapped yourself, with vomit, with wrong, but you open to dirt, grass, ; I relate a little. I live lonesome in a dark room. I hardly go out. When I do, I feel the bouyancy of ground, dirt. Great work hon, I love your seclusion, and mist. ---KnighnGale

[Perdition]

Well, the isolation comes from a long, deranged commitment to not understanding why others do not see or understand the beauty, simplicity or madness surrounding them. Enjoy your frequencies and call out the living into your life, beyond that, set all but your one true commitment to the one love you have aside, make art the only language you speak, eat and drink and the rest will come. but set all other distractions aside and just write. Unfortunately, the silence of good writing is lost within me in this one, from not knowing whether I'm journaling or writing poetry in this one? My bad for making that choice. Maybe a little of both, but I do have to move on from this one soon...hahaha. As if I could. Thanks, knighngale~