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Nov 2019 · 191
Quest Of a Dream Seer
WildLander Nov 2019
Eyes closed, sleeping.
Searching seeking.
Escape reality
To see what is to be.
Pain, destruction, all to come.
A mother's touch, a gentle humming,
Around the consciousness is thrumming
Answers, prayers, just out of reach
Peace, treaties, they beseech.
The lone black wolf stands, head turned away
It might just stand, or attack it may.
A single white dove alights on the ground,
Dry leaves scatter, but yet there's no sound
A kindred spirit, palm out stretched,
To help a man whom he detests.
Stone cold eyes hold no surprise
He's resigned himself to his own demise.
A familiar face,
A familiar place,
The lights come on, blood, all over the place.
A soft warm smile as he comes near,
He wipes away a single tear.
He takes your hand, to place a knife
One to take your very own life.
You plead for him to love and stay.
He slowly turns and walks away.
The floor boards creak under foot,
The lights flicker, flicker, then go out.
Through the darkness, a single cry
The sound of one not afraid to die.
A white wolf sits with unblinking stare
Is it a welcome? Or simply a dare?
Hand reached out, you attempt to draw near.
The white wolf sits, it can smell your fear.
A pitch black crow pecks at the skull,
The eye sockets lifeless, the toothy smile dull.
A raven lands above his bed,
Gold tipped black feather drifts down to his head.
His eyes fly open, no sound, scream or shout
The sun comes up and the dream winks out.
This poem is a strange collection of symbols that has been written in the form a dream. I wrote it in a way that it is open for interpretation and meaning can be imposed on it in various ways by those that read it
Nov 2019 · 298
The Rose
WildLander Nov 2019
How beautiful is the rose that shows it's colour to those that pass?
Struck with hues of death, yet a symbol of love and hope?
How brave is the rose that faces the cold night,
When the winds seeks to strip it's pride, deface it of its careful delicacy that was bestowed upon it.
And when the cruel bite of winter rips away the mysticism that once veiled such promise.
What of that beautiful, brave rose is left but the harsh ugly callous beneath?
How everlasting was that beauty or true thy love?
When pretty disguises are plucked one by one to show what truly lies beneath those ****** petals of fake promise.
How beautiful is the rose that has nothing left to show?
How beautiful is the rose once it has run its course?
How beautiful is the rose that weathers life's trials and still stands when the sun touches the remains of a once splendid thing?
How beautiful is the callous that was stronger than the petals.
Nov 2019 · 261
Final Hour
WildLander Nov 2019
My final hour lay me down,
Pitch wings come gather round.
Stars defaced they shed no light
Whether by choice or lack of might.
The hands of Father Time stand still.
Upon my skin, a creeping chill.
Mother Nature takes up the knife,
She saws the fragile string of life.
She doesn't clip through and get it done,
She drags it out, she's having fun.
It's getting dark, I cannot see.
I don't know who is here with me.
Whether there is someone,
Or no one at all
It doesn't matter my life is done.
I've taken and tried, through it I've crawled
I've stumbled, got up, tried to run, once again to fall.
The soft black feathers, tender are they.
Cradled in wings of darkness I lay.
One last movement, the life line snaps.
And everything around goes black.
This poem was written with the intentions of trying to capture the final moments before a peaceful death.

— The End —