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Elizabeth Apr 2014
To walk in the path of those footsteps before me,
Those that led to gilded gateways of valiant hope and glory,
Where freedom manumits fierce hands chained to death
And heroes' tales are written in martyred blood, stolen breath.
These stories shall follow me where'er I go.

Their basilic faces would make kings of us all
And shed away the wrongdoings of supreme,privileged blood.
Yet what makes us privileged than our deeds and our thoughts,
And the labors that brought us to what we have naught.
These stories shall haunt me where'er I go.

This certain romance that exists between future and past,
The tales of the old coincide with grieved souls that have left.
Those who were soldiers and battalions of fearless digress,
Have etched into memory the words we shall never dispossess.
These stories shall guide me where'er I go.

These stories, the ones that spur the emotions,
And tug at the heart, with all the dead's devotion,
Have reminded  us of wrongs that remain and are kept,
Locked away in the deepest part of the cage evils profusely *****.
These stories are remembered where'er I go.
Elizabeth Apr 2014
If I joined her in the sky,
Would they remember me?
As they remember her,
With odes and pictures,
Soft renditions of her laughter.
I do not feel as if I've left a single stroke.
This painting is a wild one,
A sad one.
And death will part us all,
But her death adjoined,
With tears and remembrance.
My death would do none at all.
Elizabeth Apr 2014
These sparks, these enigmas tied down to the strings
Of my sewn together heart, keep me well alive.
And if I could but paint the color of kiss on your lips,
This insurmountable feeling of being,
I would.

Yet you have unwound the thread.
The blood pulsed once, but now aches for ignition,
And I wait for the return, for the ambulance,
That exists somewhere in the world of
Broken hearts, chained and silent memories.

This feeling of being lost, for what seems eternity,
Aches the muscles in a most unforeseeable,
Detaching and persistent, morbid way.
For the thoughts precede when unspoken,
In triggers of the smallest things.

In a song, a melancholy remedy,
And in the sky, the stars that burn with deathly fire,
As do I - yearning for what has past.
If time could change, I would wish it all back.
But time shall steal away.
Elizabeth Mar 2014
Show me where the thoughts collide
The heart, the herald angel lies
And woolen is the very skin
Held taut against your bones
And you had told me once before
These very aching metaphors
Would drift away like dusty spores
Amongst the broken wind

These memories will **** me
Surely in the end.
Elizabeth Mar 2014
Seduction oozed off her lips in the form of red lipstick
And they were cherry-bomb red,
So dark and malicious,
But beautiful at the same time.

She'd gone with the hope to be noticed,
As hollow as hope is,
And waited for his eyes to meet hers,
With a Lime-a-rita in his hand.

And she took a sip from his drink,
Left some red lipstick on the outer rim,
Then left the party,
With his memoir in the trash can.

She had listened to all the rules,
How to be a heartbreaker played in her head.
But felt the desire in her heart anyways,
And turned out to miss him in the end.
Elizabeth Mar 2014
We are labeled (wo)men.
I am wo- without the man.
But without man, I am an individual.
I am no woe.
I am no syllable.
I am more than my own label.
So think again.
Elizabeth Mar 2014
Do the trees love the leaves,
Their worldly decors hanging so peacefully?
So beautifully do they fall into winter,
That sorrowful trees wail in the wind
Yearning for their beauty back,
Naked until spring.

Or do the leaves love the trees,
That house them in their brambles
And branches so bare when abandoned?
Mere twigs become friends,
Nourishing the green that gives them
Life and purpose among the greater things.
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