My wings upon;
the falling hopes of I,
As heavens lift a buried heart,
In the tears of time,
endless as the miles to nowhere.
O'
Lover of so;
that you and I haven't met,
Many are my requests,
and these prayers of future,
Hurricanes of voices;
rhythms of choices we make,
The rhymes of pen;
all bled out onto paper.
Mobility of pen,
an agility with great nobility,
But only of those gifted the ability;
as the few residents of a poetic community.
These are the great successes;
from the hardest of times,
Within man's running thoughts,
all screaming-
"you've run out of luck, and time"
But I was running in place;
in the stillness of waiting on fate,
Despite of it being easier to wait,
how do you find what's out for you,
Being too afraid to walk out of the gate?
It may be;
an eye for an eye,
But it's the I against I;
as self-delusion makes any blind.
People can lie with the brightest smile,
stick close to your successes;
As you keep track on the race of life,
by it's undermined marathon mile.
