My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.
You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.
This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.
Apr 10, 2014
Apr 10, 2014 at 1:48 PM UTC
My poetry is not for you.
My heart is.
My words belong to the wind.
Emotions cause this volcano to explode.
A release of rhythm, of prose
Of joys and of pains
Of memories of today.
You are a muse.
That's amusing.
A tempest of a temptress,
Your touch sings maladies on my soul.
A dirge of crystal tears
Reflecting lost hope
Lost love.
This poem is not for you.
Yours is a smile that lightens
This burdensome heathen.
Whilst your scorn leaves new scars
Over old,
Like a worn patchwork cloak,
That no wizard ever wore
But this one dons with the certainty
Of the pious
And the loved.
