through the ink of silence
Those are not even a verse
Hearts skip beats
To look at the lost days
The empty promises
Twilight hues on the hill town
Warm breaths in hazy days
The colorful touch of dreams
The shimmering lights
All long gone
Smiles with the eyes produce sighs only
And I wish I could write poetry
I wish I could paint everything
that is grey within.....
with the brightest colors
instead of letting them embrace lives
on the grey canvas.....
I wanted to reach out to the sky
not to touch any star
just to whisper to the Moon
'How beautiful is you'!
I was still stunned, on the ground
wandering down the sunrise hill.
In the midst of the morning breeze
I heard of a whispering
‘The eyes above gaze on the ground’.
So close to me it drew
as if hissed to me ‘tell me about you’!
Here's to the kids that find their breath in the wind
find their purpose in the sky
their friends in the sunset
their strength in the sunrise.
Here's to the kids with the glimmer in their eyes
the strength of Orion in their core.
A lion's roar behind their faintest whispers.
Their comforting hug when the moon is an only witness.
Here's to the kids that are the galaxy they inhabit
and watch the sunset from the front line of the battle in their mind.
You're as aesthetic as the sunrise that infuses our lifeless souls with hysterical laughter
and as caring as the sunset that gently carries us to sleep on cotton clouds.
I'll miss you like how melting flowers yearn the rejuvenating sun's presence.
She rested her head against the windowsill, tracing her fingers along the rigid, empty patches of wood where that white paint used to be. Once up on a time.
The little whisps of hair that lay limply at the back of her neck became startled as the cold from the windowsill carressed her cheek.
Her eyes turned to the night, where the sky nursed the stars. Pockets of light screaming out into the blackness, before fading into the day. As her mind began to drift, She wandered what promise lay behind those diamonds of light. What would she find if she took that blanket of black by the corners and shook it. What would she see.
The girl sat there, her finger still tracing the chipped paint; running after her lingering thoughts. She sat there untill that familair flame grew bright, bleeding night into dawn. Morning came. the dew settled once again.
Fresh from the heavens and as she turned away, her finger stopped. She breathed a sweet sigh. A sigh filled with secrets, covered in beauty. Then she stretched her legs over the side of her bed, the crack from her toes an unapologetic symphony that her feet sang having spent the night bunched up cross legged by the window. Walking across her room to her bedroom door, she reached for the handle, turning it slowly, opening the door to another day.
Another day painted by mercy and given by grace
The sunrise greets the morning dew,
to paint the sky with a vibrant hue.
The last night has passed and a new days has come,
advertised perfectly by a morning’s sun.
Alarm clock birds hold no button to “snooze,”
nothing left from yesterday, so now nothing left to lose.
Go hesitantly wipe the sleep from your eyes,
and politely greet the oncoming sunrise.
The blissful sunset that once held the night,
sped off within our starry eyes so fast.
The brilliant, blinding, shining light,
tragically drifted off, lost in the past.
It separates the long days from the glorious dreams,
and divides them into hostile, opposing teams.
A sunrise and it’s rays can always carry hope,
that maybe one day it’s possible to move on.
Either surprise fairy tale, or tasteless joke,
maybe my sense of humour is just somewhat wrong.
So remember to always bless a sunrise,
but never, ever more than a sunset.
Both light up the passing, fading skies,
that cover our shaking regret.
At night, we all strive only to peacefully sleep,
to kill the hours before the sun makes horizon’s leap.
The stars line the skyline,
and the moon lies beside me.
It's not often the sun and the moon intertwine.
It seems we have finally crossed paths;
You call me your sunrise, and you are my moon.
After countless years we have finally met and while astronomy says it is meant to be brief,
I'm begging for a miracle and for the chance of an eclipse.
And while it could end the world should it last too long,
We'd get what we've been asking for.
To spend every moment of the rest of our lives,
It is not some dusty frame,
hanging rusty nails;
No es amor solo amar, to you,
just some language you,
Distraught, despaired, disheveled,
a dystopian novel notion,
There's no need;
you don't need to patronize.
Cold hand upon cold hand;
lifeless smiles colluding.
And as if you were a Monet sunrise,
my impression of you is that of drunken brush strokes,
and angry orange hues,
Left on display within a rotting, wooden frame.