I was never told
To behold The tears Carrying all my fears To let them flow For the glow To pay the price For snatching the prize To let someone die On the mere roll of the die I was never told To behold The dance of the fairies Amongst fires in the prairies Of the sacrifice For the fool’s paradise I was never told To behold The danseuse death In her fight with fate The glory bequeath With the fory dead I was never told To prepare myself To fight herself To wrench my prize From someone her size I was never told To behold People’s fate In someone’s gait To let the decision Be forsaken of vision I was never told To behold The dance of the dead As if they had never bled Their waking up again Out of deign not disdain I was never told To behold The history being rewritten And the mysteries being smitten..
I was never told.
Mhall46184@aol.com https://hellopoetry.com/lawrence-hall/ poeticdrivel.blogspot.com Behold! A story requires an occasional “Behold!” Merely to see the magic is not enough The children do not merely see Aslan Nor does Uncle Andrew merely see the witch Behold! A story requires an occasional “Behold!” Merely to see the Truth is not enough The Magi do not merely see the Star Nor do the shepherds merely see the Child Behold! A story requires an occasional “Behold!” Or else the magic isn’t truly told Behold!
A poem is itself.
Along with the morning mists The tender leaves gently uncurl Soak in the first rays of the Sun Listen closely to the dew And its translucent views Up in the mists Rolls the voice of the soul Behold 🌿🌿
A heart of gold
Silver is sold Bronze is told What diamonds behold
another ("populas")poem where each lines describes a person and then the last one kinda sums it up
I smell The salty breeze
calm before it reveals. The true intentions of coming this close submerging the evil behold.
Peeking through the morning haze
Moon in its a-waning phase Gazes with ever placid face, Not devoid of any grace, To behold, observe and mark Every flutter, cry and bark, Every drooping of a flower Bending under dewy bower, Every ripple in the lake, Every plant, the true or fake, To the beholder doesn’t make It any difference at all; The dune, the creek, the waterfall, So different and yet so strange, So alike to waning Sage
I'm tired of "understudying myself"
(The just in case syndrome, the worry, the not good enough,the anticipation of failure has got to go.) Its time for me to be the Star
We’ve been slowly sinking
Into our own thrones – Permitting an unwitting “Thinking” alone. At evil, we’re winking Without any Eyes – Unshrinking, no blinking, We see not the guise. .