I found her savaged
Embodied luxuriously over
what evoked to be a torn up of sequence of awesome tapestries, adjourned past a thin web of carefully traced emblems.
To this day, I find not a thought so beautiful and out of many
those which may come about
and those which could’ve never come.
I find myself without a motive,
without a sacred scent of pride nor
stigma of freedom,
yet I am only enslaved to my very demons.
Were they not as grotesque,
were not in the hopeless, drunken sake
to revoke their perseverance
they wouldn’t be anywhere near as precious.
In fact, they are perhaps the most precious elements I can behold.
Though they have not always ruled over guidance,
they have never left my course
and my curse, is to fancy them dear.
For lord, how could one ever wish to cease dreaming?
I can only let go upon the rabid clearance of my faithful pen,
even the latter, couldn’t ever suffice the magnificence of the given.
For it’s not ignorance, nor enlightenment;
It is whatever I wish it to be,
and none which I’ll come close to explain.
It is the mere and absolute pleasure
one finds in darkness.
That which comes over me,
that which sways my tidings and gathers
my rhythms and rushes my rhymes,
that which tides my emotions to the velvet
envelopes entitled in marks,
to the sunken, undecipherable verses,
to the crimson, wilted rashes of a silvermoon
slenderlight.
Oh, for such foul words are now used to demean one’s art
“thou art my lady, my gleam of heaven in sorrowful sight”
What terrible night,
what a terrific subject
what tremulous manner to execute a
tremendous gal.
I could never stop dreaming,
not while the dances
on melted vine;
not even whilst it dwells my words
into senseless specters,
not while the mind yet thrives,
nor will I ever fear such a splendid rhyme.
I found myself upon a creature whose tender slight
had abandoned the very virtue
and could only see myself glowing vile,
tangling amongst amazement and disappointment
why should I deny one the pleasure
my very fate has forbidden to attire?
What makes me,
of all people,
the soul to advantage of given pride?
Cowardly, the stench of curiosity bewildered
by an apologetic reign of might.
Whatever may have become of me,
where I to act upon my gifted intervention;
I often wonder.
I often regret it upon the moments when the mind
speaks the soul’s verdict, and one consoles
over the truth, acclaiming to change by the night’s passing.
Yet lament, sorrow and forlorn
only help me remember her last stance ever so beautifully;
and in the quelled noise of a risen,
renders the violent solemnity of a kiss.
For a lady always rests upon the velvet of her silhouette.
Jul 24, 2013
Jul 24, 2013 at 11:43 PM UTC
I found her savaged
Embodied luxuriously over
what evoked to be a torn up of sequence of awesome tapestries, adjourned past a thin web of carefully traced emblems.
To this day, I find not a thought so beautiful and out of many
those which may come about
and those which could’ve never come.
I find myself without a motive,
without a sacred scent of pride nor
stigma of freedom,
yet I am only enslaved to my very demons.
Were they not as grotesque,
were not in the hopeless, drunken sake
to revoke their perseverance
they wouldn’t be anywhere near as precious.
In fact, they are perhaps the most precious elements I can behold.
Though they have not always ruled over guidance,
they have never left my course
and my curse, is to fancy them dear.
For lord, how could one ever wish to cease dreaming?
I can only let go upon the rabid clearance of my faithful pen,
even the latter, couldn’t ever suffice the magnificence of the given.
For it’s not ignorance, nor enlightenment;
It is whatever I wish it to be,
and none which I’ll come close to explain.
It is the mere and absolute pleasure
one finds in darkness.
That which comes over me,
that which sways my tidings and gathers
my rhythms and rushes my rhymes,
that which tides my emotions to the velvet
envelopes entitled in marks,
to the sunken, undecipherable verses,
to the crimson, wilted rashes of a silvermoon
slenderlight.
Oh, for such foul words are now used to demean one’s art
“thou art my lady, my gleam of heaven in sorrowful sight”
What terrible night,
what a terrific subject
what tremulous manner to execute a
tremendous gal.
I could never stop dreaming,
not while the dances
on melted vine;
not even whilst it dwells my words
into senseless specters,
not while the mind yet thrives,
nor will I ever fear such a splendid rhyme.
I found myself upon a creature whose tender slight
had abandoned the very virtue
and could only see myself glowing vile,
tangling amongst amazement and disappointment
why should I deny one the pleasure
my very fate has forbidden to attire?
What makes me,
of all people,
the soul to advantage of given pride?
Cowardly, the stench of curiosity bewildered
by an apologetic reign of might.
Whatever may have become of me,
where I to act upon my gifted intervention;
I often wonder.
I often regret it upon the moments when the mind
speaks the soul’s verdict, and one consoles
over the truth, acclaiming to change by the night’s passing.
Yet lament, sorrow and forlorn
only help me remember her last stance ever so beautifully;
and in the quelled noise of a risen,
renders the violent solemnity of a kiss.
For a lady always rests upon the velvet of her silhouette.