Caught In Itself

O' words I was told are treasures to behold,
Whence wise we wake to the blood that flows,
In sour guts, in sore limbs - o' wonders we wreathe!
No more'd rage stars, no less'd flesh breathe.

Yet what troubles belie my utterance vain?
To those I court in sincere exchange;
And silence that veils the earful array,
Seems never quite to sense that all I say.

Shall I fear for lore that stood so fragile,
On phony discerns all this weary while?
Or to weep for pages that perish unfound?
Dismissed by whims whilst jeers abound...

O' words of the world dispersed thou be -
And I paint figures inane!
That tangle as nails on defiant strings,
While wisdom's buried in chains.

Reviews

[Adriana]

Okay Shakespeare, that's pretty damn good

[Swagato Saha]

Not quite there yet, but thank you!

[Karmee]

Very deep and powerful, i enjoyed this write