Stand on misty mountaintops that birth the humble frost
Adorned atop the reddening grass where daylight becomes lost
Within a sleeping thicket lies a tale that’s lost in time
Where snowflakes fall like gentle rain with footsteps left behind
On the eve of rivers born the soil will bow it’s head
Allowing glistening giants the sacred land to tread
The sky is torn by crimson fire that spreads deep into the hills
A kingdom from ancient ashes that felt the winter’s chill
Now the whispering woodlands flourish between the trees
They have never known such stories to take their hearts like these
Wilderness abundant with softly-spoken words
The dawn arose more wondrous now that beauty has unfurled
Where the shyest starlight is anchored to the ground
The shadow of the seasons crept through without a sound
In shattered forms of midnight the ocean did appear
A wave of twinkling water swept away as tears
Midst falling waves
Encircling the outer banks
Like timberus structures
Known only to man
On a chorus of empty ears
In distant monologues
In a cautious Spring
Learning to last
Crash, Built, Fall, Rise
I think I know what I believe
Then I don't
I do know what I don't believe
Everyone else knows what I believe
More than me
They see how I live
If evolution really works,
then why do mothers only have
Dealing with us, they need a couple thousand of them. :)
Dear authors and poets,
With works that inspire and bring tears,
Do you intend the interpretation?
Do you mean what we think?
Or do you simply write and let us make-up what we
Want to see? What we need to hear?
We are taught be scholars the deeper meanings,
Metaphors, and life lessons.
We give you so much notoriety and acclamation.
Is it deserved?
Maybe it is maybe it's not.
We may never know.
An aspiring writer
I have always wondered. Do authors intend for their work to be as deep and meaningful as we have learned?
We used to be so much more
Before this world stripped us bare.
We had morals and missions
Things to do and people to miss.
Heaven forbid we go against
The to-do list.
It’s kinda like a script.
I did not
mean to scare you
with these words.
it's just the way
Luckily, sometimes the truth doesn't hurt too bad.
I pull at the strands of his shirts, his sweaters and his jeans.
I become a seamstress and know he will come to me.
He buys new clothes instead.
Today I was looking through my old works
For a hidden treasure
A diamond in the mud
A pliable piece of wood
Maybe not a prize in itself
Or something quite ordinary
But hiding secrets within
Thoughts I never knew I had
Anything to excite my senses
And to give me a sense
was worth it