Love is a woven dichotomy
The sweetest of fruits and most merciless of storms
On the heart of each palm, pain-salted tears
we all have, share and hold
Under the and sun-kissed days
and moon-soul nights
We choose to maintain our stories
while fighting against the tyranny of life
and its harsh game of glass chess
For which none of us can truly escape
but play to soon become skilled against
So with scarred skin and wounded hearts,
We trudge through rings of Hell
for the mere test of Heaven on Earth
The ever beautiful dichotomy of love is something I always tend to ponder...
Stay safe and well, everyone!
Ocean of truths
By diving in the
Depths of her inner
Her goddess wits
As she clothes herself
In heartened confidence
And brewing awareness
Heighten her sensitivity
Which channels intuitive
Inklings of light
Beyond a logical mind
Her life becomes
A template from
Which she lives
Inspired joy and passion
Modeling a tapestry
Of experiences that
Enlivens the heart
And fuels the soul.
Walk through the silence
of a lonely tapestry,
its mute single thread
trying to Canute the night,
knowing it must ride the Moon
to dance with the stars.
Blood red ink.
Ink red blood.
Across pages it falls,
words of needlepoint pain
screaming at the audience,
the Moon has been deflowered
and the stars dance alone.
Cedar wood smoke perfumes
the stench of lethargy,
from an open log fire
throwing flickers of hopeful light,
flame fingers burn the Moon
as the stars cry for the weaver.
© Pagan Paul (02/06/19)
6th poem in Fool's diary series.
Here sits a poet,
A constellation of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-ending tapestry of poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
Stitched from pieces of Truth
Making a tapestry of a Lie
The signature handiwork
Of the Father of Lies
To which the wicked proudly cling
As vindication and justification
To beat the Truth
To submit to the Lie
substantial breakable quiet, the moon
shimmers above, a great beacon of tranquility
the night whispers a hidden new tune
and hides its face in an attempt at humility
quickly the sound is gone too soon
a misty white evening
with boats on the bay
the water churning, until it is gray
an empty stillness weaving
the tapestry of the night
a multitude of dreams, and quiet hearts
the living hold breath, at the magnificent sight
because of the silence, the mind can't help but spark
we are a simple people, it is with the absence of sound
Our scholars and our work, have become renowned
in the beginning, there was silence and today there still is,
we cannot live without the quiet, unbearable though it is.
I don't know what this is honestly.