"bemoaned" poems
Portia and Bassanio
Brave Portia's lot was cast
Inside a mocking case of lead,
Morrocco came and passed,
Then Arragorn, arrived and left, forlorn.
A list of louts came, failed, and went
Before Bassanio played his turn...
Poor rich Portia's patience spent,
Nerissa's lady solace yearned
Antonio, Bassanio, a troubled pair
A wily shark a loan arranged,
Whose bite, though small,
Beyond compare aimed deepest
To the matters of the heart.
Antonio, about to lose his fortune,
Bemoaned the losing of a friend,
The foiling of a fortune, sunk.
Shylock, certain of his pound of flesh,
Summarily dismissed by gentile gender-bending,
Played as a fool by a woman posing as a man,
Who drove a lawyer's visage in a Portia.
All ended well, at least for "Christian" men...
Life sweetened by the turning of a Jew,
No matter his conversion at duress...
Straight away Portia and Nerissa turned back
A ******* borrower who had landed on his feet,
And sprang their traps to tame their husbands' heat.
Apr 16, 2014
Apr 16, 2014 at 11:52 PM UTC
I only prayed to the moon after it rose beyond
my window, the white sill a frame for waning
crescents and gibbouses--milk-drowned gods
dripping stars as they climbed skeleton branches--
some nights resting behind flood-heavy clouds.
People say the moon has a face, but
I have yet to see it sneer at my sins even as it tastes
my ocean-drop tears, evaporated into sky-bound veils,
brushed along the shadowed craters ...
The moon itself bemoaned imperfections in midnight
wind creaking branch against branch until I woke
slow from sleep--sad light staining my walls
pallid, pale as my own skin, glowing in muted
television shows left running while I dreamt
the moon spilled a star between my ribs--
dim luminescence radiating warm,
and the star, seeping through my pores, thawed
the ice I had prayed to melt in the first place.
Mar 10, 2015
Mar 10, 2015 at 12:39 AM UTC
Gene and Jenny Taylor
Had long been man and wife
But a heinous disagreement
Took a hold upon their life
For each bemoaned their tackle
It was Gene who started first
He justified why dangly bits
Were easily the worst
“They tangle in your underwear
And twist themselves about
If I sit down in football shorts
They try to wriggle out
They chafe on nearly everything
They’re difficult to dry
And when it’s hot an humid out
They’re welded to your thigh”
Jenny swiftly countered him
“Well ***** are surely worst
For shaving is laborious
And not all lips are pursed
The periods are painful
With a week of aggravation
And we use three times the toilet roll
And cause deforestation “
But Gene had more to muster
“Well the ***** is a *******
And hiding an ********
Is a skill each man has mastered
They lead us into jeopardy
They always take the ****
And first thing in the morning
They’ve a tendency to miss”
So Jenny said “Vaginas
Are a curse between the thighs
And lady bits look monstrous
To anyone with eyes
They’re prone to thrush and fondling
And embryo gestation
***** are only any good
For use in aviation”
Gene and Jenny caught their breath
The stalemate was called
For genitals, the lips and *****
Or **** and hairy *****
Are vital to our species
More useful than they seem
And you’ll see a marked improvement
When they’re working as a team
May 15, 2014
May 15, 2014 at 7:14 AM UTC
I tried telling her
Of my life's wisdom and notions of fetters.
She relayed to me
Visions of nothing less than ecstasy.
I bemoaned where I went wrong
She said I'd been ******* a loser ****
She seemed so happy
I shrugged and agreed
If they weren't ******* me
I must be ******* them.
I lost track of that *****
But words register a score
And the more I seem to ****
The more I seem to score.
It's a cocksucker's life
Even if you just do it with your wife
She gets her way
Day after day
Until you may decide
Just to chop it.
Emasculation redirects
Power to new ducts
And the hammer rises
And the hammer falls.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 3:33 PM UTC
Some days he'll dress in new or old
But with a smile always so sharp
His walking charm will take a toll
When the woman turns to dark
His snaking charm strolls to the pub
Where the slags and twonks *** around
Nothing but warm hands and pint to grub
Where the woman he sees is found
She spits bleeding words from her filthy mouth
As he scorns them back with his hand
The red only cries when she screams in doubt
The snake gives her his looking glan
Someone thought to call for help
But no help had ever arrived
The barman listened to the poor woman's yelp
People pretend she never cried
The smiling man of ruthless charm
Walks down the stairs of death
Vehemence covered with blood and sin
Whereas mannequin slags spread grim
In forms of angelic old and new
His inhibited shape had grew
More evil it grew as his smile knew
His deliverance was joyful harm
He preached to barman to slags to twonks
His ways of nature so brash and ******
From snake to wolf to man dressed well
Even a preacher of God his allure so grand
The cunting ***** bemoaned downwards
Dampened with red paint shrieked foreign words
With her limbs cut open, "Deliverance is God"
Finding it was the charming man who smiled as a sod
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 12:36 PM UTC
Talk, shutter
Cooling babble,
Paddies ‘tween
The bugs swim, paddle
Whispered gush,
Though never hush
There cast soft in the light of ease
Sensual talk
Down the candid rock
A bridge to honor the way
Bemoaned pleasures
Nature’s fetters
Gone as a little mouse
Trickling now,
Walk on wetter
The fall may never stop
And soon all secrets are revealed
Silence—
Heads go to the leaves
Spies returning to the eaves.
Aug 25, 2014
Aug 25, 2014 at 9:56 PM UTC
My roommates are all up and about. It’s finals week and everyone is hustling about. Lisa came in from an early exam, it was snowing lightly, she looked right at home.
“How’d it go?” I quizzed.
“E-Z,” she replied, shedding her long navy coat and mango cashmere beanie. After dumping it all on her bed she joined us in the common room. “Blue State (coffee) is closing,” She announced.
Leong gasped, “What?”
“Three of the four Blue State locations are closing,” Lisa confirmed, “not Orange Street.”
“Why?” Leong moaned.
“What are you why? Lisa queried.
“They’re so popular!” Leong exclaimed, “There’s always SO many people in there.”
“That’s real,” I chimed in, “those places are packed and noisy.”
“They got bought out,” Lisa attested.
“By whom?” Leong wondered.
“By another coffee company.. maybe,” Lisa guessed soothingly.
“Oh, I hope so.” Leong stated, sounding depressed.
“You know what? Lisa added, “rumors were thick that Book Trader would close too.”
“No!” Leong bemoaned.
“I’m happy to announce that they’re not.” Lisa assured, “That’s something to celebrate.”
“I love studying at Book Trader.” I professed.
“And their bagels..” Leong mentioned dreamily.
“Oh, yeah,” Lisa agreed, “so good, so cheap.”
“Change is ineluctable,” Anna sighed.
“WHAT?” Leong replied, looking confused.
“Inevitable,” Lisa told her, “change is inevitable.”
“Then just say that.” Leong grumbled at Anna, who shrugged.
“I need to go support my favorite coffee shop soon,” I declared.
“Which is?” Leong inquired.
“Coffee with a K,” Lisa and I blurted out, both at once. “It has an intimate, date spot vibe,” I explained, “and the chairs that are perfect for putting an arm around someone.”
“The Benjamin and Acorn (two on campus coffee shops) are going to be so crowded.” Sunny stated, joining the conversation as she started putting on her shoes to go out.
“True THAT.” I agreed.
“Common Grounds Cafe,” Sophie revealed, coming from her room, drying her hair with a towel, “bought out Blue State,” she confirmed. “it was in the Yale News.”
“OK,” I pronounced, satisfied. “Perfect.” Lisa declared. “Thank God.” Leong agreed.
“Coffee’s important.” Sunny proclaimed, picking up her coffee cup and book bag. “See ya!” she waved to the room absently, with her coffee cup, as she opened the door and stepped out.
Dec 20, 2022
Dec 20, 2022 at 1:13 PM UTC
the words fluttered,
swung, swept, swooshed,
bemoaned, bereaved, bedazzled,
leapt, lauded, littered,
hovered, heckled, hiccuped,
made U-turns, took deep dips,
underwent saucy somersaults,
played like notes,
acted like songs,
usurped as oaths,
humbled as prayers,
slaughtered as killers,
punctuated, presided, presumed,
abetted, adhered, attacked
while the paper endured all with love.
Sep 21, 2012
Sep 21, 2012 at 7:50 AM UTC
Could it have happened any differently?
Perhaps. But which fork in the road was it?
Where does the path start to unravel?
A change in the way things are
Would have changed everything else as well.
For all the mistakes bemoaned, lessons
Learned – unless vanity stands in the way –
Or the same error repeated
With different actors playing the same role –
Hero and villain alike.
And the split between people of insignificance and
The people that matter – faces splashed on
Tabloids and magazine covers –
The invisible reduced to mere shadows
Floating on the fringes of light.
Shadows have a way of defining the light.
People have a way of shaping our lives,
Setting in motion our trajectories,
The way banks and boulders guide water in a river –
The wind, a fallen tree.
No absence made a hole in the day of someone
Who was never there.
What’s out of our control – people,
Sequences of events. What’s inevitable –
How we choose to react.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:08 PM UTC
Casket-boards of our boat all creaking
Against the lapping tongue of tide,
A soft journey of heartache
Had my six swords and I.
Across the war rent oceans
And beneath the mellow moon
All crooned, we few,
We wash-aways, we had
****** our prayers away.
Each sword aboard
The vessel knew no food but thought
And mused through breakfast same as supper
Growing only ever more distraught.
When departed we to shrouded sea
From long forgotten long bemoaned
Setting of the sun upon the coast,
All sapient and strong
These swordsmen mine.
Not withered like the husks they are become,
Mere chaff to rustle utterly along
alone.
They are dry inside, they die,
Their own confusion laying waste to flesh
And mother-hungry marrow. I sigh,
A windy shiver running up my backbone
And escaping into the endless mist and flood.
The strangest glint amidst the heavens sets our course,
And the grim placid seas do not reproach us
For all know,
All the lands of the earth,
And the sea, and the sky,
And every monotonous row of my oar passing by,
All know these six swords,
Know them truly,
And know as well their coming fate.
If swords these six swords were
Instead of men,
Then great forges would I say
Lay upon that further shore:
An empire of magma where all blades are fused to one.
Poor dears,
O my poor dead dears you do not even know the truth,
And you let your brows be conquered by woe.
And that is why you are my merest passenger,
And why I have been bound to steer.
Mar 4, 2012
Mar 4, 2012 at 2:24 PM UTC
The last time she meekily made love,
she painted woad on her arms
and bemoaned the children she never bore.
She summoned their names as "Iso" and "Tope",
to her bemused lover she retorted
"I want to make Roar, not Love".
She bode on the straightest longitude
to Banyas and bathed in its spring,
fortified by Tennessee Honey,
to Quneitra, she bore wire cutters
having already wept for a town
destroyed by un-love,
where she could simply set up a commune,
To grow Kohl Rabi and learn new days.
Instead Apache helicopters and glints of Uzis
Cast the spectre of World War Three
Feb 18, 2013
Feb 18, 2013 at 3:13 PM UTC
My heart is a messy place
I don't clean up often
My emotions lay about like worn jeans and pile up at every corner
Murky tears that were long bemoaned
Lay inside my pillowcases long after they have dried
And make heavy a light thing where my thoughts reside
Shadowy folks have unmade beds
Though long beparted
And declared dead
Many things that was once fresh
Have now grown brown reached their Autumn
They still roam the halls and vents
Like after tastes of mint long after the in scents have burnt
Every possible surface is stained with faces
Shelves are stacked and layered and stuffed
And though I rummage for space
There is never enough
Not for an ant
Or a hand
Or a new thing
Just room enough for me
And this big old mess of memories
Jun 19, 2018
Jun 19, 2018 at 4:15 AM UTC
Words tumbled out of an aluminum commode
into a hungry mouth: naïveté.
Libations atop a tin altar
in a squalid temple rife with the stench
of lascivious youth
bemoaned battle cry
transcendent in the sound of forever.
Coming of Age
a cleverly disguised charade
kept in place
by a smile that never breaks
until dawn.
White noise
cryptic static
proselytize
vomiting mucus-draining corpses
a parade of mindless disciples
dancing to the beat
of the heart in a distant star
whose life perished in the forgotten past.
Fabricated promises of maturation
facetiae in the frozen teeth that
only part for the stubborn tongue to
lap up remaining consciousness on the floor
like a begging dog.
By himself he's weak
but among many he's a god.
A song bludgeons the eardrums
"Tonight, tonight, to-night": Repetitio est mater studiorum.
There's a voice in my head but
you put a hand o'er it's mouth
and pried mine open with
the monkey's paw
clutching a rose goblet
containing spiritual cleansing.
I've got a good idea
but bad intentions
and there's enough feculence wrapped in flesh and lies
to make this place feel like Heaven.
Stuffing my mouth with promises and
fallacies
that won't become clear until the
bottle is empty.
I'm washing away all the pain
and the hurt
right?
I'm a man now, risen from the
dirt
right?
I'll put my trust in the siren's call
reaching through the fog to grasp
her by the hair
I fall into the murky bog
beleaguered by strangulating tendrils
wrapping around my frail bones
I feel I'm being pulled under
and I'm all alone
I see their shimmering faces on the surface
distorted
in the reflection
peering into the soul as I
make my descent into the abyss.
Waking up a man with a
battered conscience
Compromise wraps a warm blanket around
me and places coffee between
crusty and brittle fingers
A gentle kiss on my forehead
is the finishing touch
leaving me alone with my baleful torment.
Coming of Age is a charade.
Dec 15, 2015
Dec 15, 2015 at 7:17 PM UTC
the bubbling tar in my chest
hastily swallowed too hot soup
shaky hands sweaty palms
not enough breath
not enough time
never enough of you
kind of love
thats what this used to be
used to be desperate ‘i miss you’s and
whispered ‘i need you’s and
pleading ‘stay with me’s
used to be anxiously awaited hellos and vehemently bemoaned goodbyes
aching days apart and blessed days together
never enough time spent gazing into your eyes
how strange that seems now?
after everything has died
everything but nothing has changed
i still miss you but i shouldn’t
i still need you but i don’t
and now i’m the one that is leaving
our tar is cool and my breath is back
i(love you)'m sorry it's over
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 11:55 PM UTC
I heard the trumpets from too far away.
Labored to save what I had given away.
Pretended to believe and Believed in pretend.
Semper Fidelis to the bitter condescend . . .
I answered the call, made a very important date;
scurried to remember then remembered too late;
embraced my Foe by forgetting my Friend.
What is this ‘This’ of ‘This We’ll defend’?
No Dream was too heavy, no payment too sleight
to abandon in the brilliance of the peaceful light.
So Determined I was to ignore my Fall
and give everything I bemoaned for security Above all.
No borders no boundaries no Heavens no Hell
nothing so precious it could not be given as well.
What use Freedom? What need I of mere Country?
What means Non Sibi Sed Patriae?
Oh Thetis put down your cumbersome sword.
Lift up the blindfold, as we can afford
to lay down courage, honor, duty and walk into the might
of Entitlement for All and for all entitled Night . . .
And Lady Liberty, you are no longer needed;
walk away, walk away, liberty ceded . . .
Here are your chains, Lady, wear them quite well.
Pray speak not of Heaven so we can pretend there’s no Hell.
Mar 12, 2014
Mar 12, 2014 at 1:22 PM UTC
When to the sessions of sweet silent thought
I summon up remembrance of things past,
I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,
And with old woes new wail my dear time's waste:
Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,
For precious friends hid in death's dateless night,
And weep afresh love's long since cancelled woe,
And moan the expense of many a vanished sight:
Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
The sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,
Which I new pay as if not paid before.
But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,
All losses are restor'd and sorrows end.
Sep 1, 2013
Sep 1, 2013 at 9:21 AM UTC
by Leslie Thomson
One night late after midnight,
A poet sat with pen in hand,
Surrounded by crumpled up paper,
No words came to his command.
In his house there crept a poem,
Full of smarm and beguiling;
Just out of reach of the poet,
It stood there, sardonically smiling.
“Do I elude you, poet?”
Said the poem with mocking tone,
“Do I keep you awake at night,
And won’t ever leave you alone?”
The poet snatched at the poem,
Which stayed outwith his grasp.
He cursed at the elusive creature,
Who laughed with a throaty rasp.
“Poem how did you get in here?
And why won’t you give me peace?”
Asked the poet of the poem,
“I am tired and need release.”
“Why do you evade my clutches?
And keep me awake so very disturbed?
After all, I am a poet;
I am King of the written word.”
“Oh such grand conceit,” mocked the poem,
“To think this is your life to choose.
You are the king of NOTHING;
You are but servant to the muse.”
“You know your mind is not your own,
And words are beyond your control.
You merely scribble what is dictated;
You will write what you are told.”
“It is true,” bemoaned the poet,
“I asked not to be entranced.
To spend time with words evading me,
And leading me in merry dance.”
“Yet I would never want to escape it,
For I love the written word so.
The muse has me in her clutches,
And I never want her to let go.”
“So you tell me poem,” said the poet,
Just what is a poor poet to do,
When I’m distracted day and night,
And haunted by creatures like you?”
“You try too hard at times,” said the poem,
“That is why we lead you on this chase.
Each poem is like a lover;
We must be ready to embrace.”
And the poem slipped into the poet’s clutch,
And only then did he understand,
That he would never be king or master,
The muse is always in command.
His mind at once was inspired
And he continued the work he planned;
Contented and filled with love,
For the poem in his hand.
So when you look for inspiring verse,
To enlighten your life or fulfil,
Remember a poem will not be forced;
It must come of its own free will.
Jan 26, 2015
Jan 26, 2015 at 3:02 PM UTC
The Sparrow
I once shattered broken fell
into deep an empty well
Screaming as I falling did
many out the fears I'd hid
Landing hard I hardly knew
wherefore what I next should do
Deeply lying shadow shroud
'round me echoed silence loud
Thus remaining wonder I
feeble dare to chance a cry
Or resting wait til strength return
as quick away my life does burn
Deep above me sits the sky
little caring if I die
Freedom midst it's clouds does reign
above a prison built of pain
As I bemoaned the fate of me
did land a sparrow on my knee
And staring I my breath did catch
to see this life upon this wretch
Then know I to death was bound
fell dead the sparrow on the ground
Time reversing backward spun
up where to first I'd begun
Answer none I have to give
of why once dieing now I live
Ever recall shall I that day
in terror hopeless as I lay
How all I had did fail me when
I fell to pain a prisoner, and
How but a simple sparrows fall
did thus to me return my all
For more see:
~ http://aweavingofwords.blogspot.com ~
Jan 26, 2010
Jan 26, 2010 at 12:26 AM UTC
1.
I think my life is bigger in their dreams
In their stale images of grandeur
behind their fading eyelids
fluttering with what still passes as hope.
And down the hall, my eyes like the
scorching blue beginnings
of gasping flames
quietly burning me up from inside,
my own dreams not yet formed.
Years ago the winds of their dreams
reached me in my angelic slumber.
I know those vivid hopes, nay, prayers
made me grow more than the
spinach I joyously bemoaned.
But tonight my heart is shrunken
with the knowledge that the stars
are mere reflections of what is already
gone.
They, curled together, their own dreams of reaching
those pale stars
shattered with neglect,
send new ones my way,
unaware that I’ve searched for my
place under the feeble moon
and cannot find it behind these naked
blue flames.
2.
I am the same girl with blue flames for eyes
but stretched, molded like clay, hardened and
glazed after being thrown on the potter’s
wheel that was my childhood.
As they lie in their dreams,
I walk into a dark house under the burden
of their dreams combined with my own.
Mingled together, I cannot distinguish my hopes
from theirs, the clay has been baked to
the same white crust around my breath,
my heart, the place where the flames
are lit.
I still haven’t reached that yet – not reached,
but maybe touched, glimpsed, grazed my toes
against it. Before me, these blue flames form
into something less dangerous,
less new, the yellow-orange blaze warm,
bursting, sending off sparks –
And I know I can light my own fires
under this feeble moon and make it glow
brighter than they did, brighter than even
their womb-sent dreams made their hearts
glow.
Jan 29, 2012
Jan 29, 2012 at 8:12 PM UTC
the nobles cut off Rasputin's head, while the two in command of keeping Rasputin's head drunk multiplied and cut off the Romanov family's heads - and it snowed a serene symphony of snow as it did on a mime's piano - and Russian felt fed, and alive again... and those closest to the pigs' trough still bemoaned the events, on the centenary pinpoint in St. Petersburg.
i was in an Athenian brothel...
i know what ethnicity
entertained me... national pride?
if there ain't any kept with the
women... just forget the football
team performing to a gold standard
that might inspire families to stay
together or keep the children dreaming...
but of course... the Irish still have
their qualms about 3rd class on the Titanic
and the potato famine... and the English
asked Aladdin for a carpet to brush
their colonial past under it -
the Welsh? don't know, don't care -
the Scots? y'ir a haggen hag hag
dabbler in Yiddish and hang the lamb
gush of intestine as edible? pardon me
deep fried friend, 'e's from Mars...
no wonder it took him Colonel Cook
and some wacky Portugese Columbus
to create the global empire, upon which
the sun, never truly set, but upon which
the moon did settle from time to time,
to reverse it's fascist priority with a pinch
of panic that had no systematic authority -
or as the venom said:
the only thing worse than fascism is panic...
proof via Pompeii.
Jul 23, 2016
Jul 23, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
Neri Oxman once said:
"You have to go away, to come back home.
You'll never truly have a sense of home,
until you leave home."
Such discontentment over the thought of home
can never carry the despair that is just so wary.
Henceforth; I bemoaned of home---
only to wander far away from it.
Only to never come back home.
Because in truth, my "home" had been lost.
My "home" already went away.
New one, old one---
They depict such distinct disparity
But then again... this is as good as it can get.
Yet, bemoan I still.
Aug 2, 2021
Aug 2, 2021 at 9:15 PM UTC
he was always
wanting, waiting
to take this walk with me
back turned at the edge of the woods
I called to him, said I was coming
and when I arrived at his side
our feet synced and tongues entwined
in stride, aligned and winding along
this colloidal ladder of a path
inside vines climbing into curls
we were so green
verdant bloom mouthing heartbeats
in synchronic lightstreams
remember when
we stepped into the clearing
where treetops parted for the sky
we both looked up, then laid down
inside the other's mind
neither push nor pull
but stilled
entranced
by backlit rhythmic ribs
arising and ebbing harmonic
bathing in the shores of soul
they dive deeper, you know...
it didn't matter
when the rains came
because you stayed with me
even though you bemoaned
the falling wet charcoal
I tousled your ashen hair
and listened
then I straddled you
and spoke of rainbow spectrums
visible only
after the clouds cry
and you
you let me
crawl inside your ear
with whispers of black-lined blissings
and in that instant
the sky vibrantly bowed
arcing prismatic across rays
bestowing halos on us both
imperfect beings
perfectly seeing
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 7:00 PM UTC
Now your fighted lightening brightens defeats
Your off-White Knight thunder frightens me
This hiss from those lips of this person I've missed
Tightens kissing fists of a ****** horizon seen
Mist heightened
I do not wish to be enlightened
I do not hope to hear your throat excitened
Around sounds that expound my stuttering ground
Or surround a thousand profoundly aroused frowns
By all counts by now they hound
My surmounting cloud
My sound impound
Say stray failures are bound round brain behaviours
Claim they wound down your feigned brave nature
These sharp verses start to form disturbing curses
Hearts should favour a saviour of more deserving or curbing regalia
Critical, it's **** literal
It's typically, empirically, egotistically pivotal
I pine to hide inside a hurst of worse design
I am not diacritical
I cannot align my mind with a realistic vine
Of my own bemoaned confines
And now this line of finely timely chides
I'm dumb and undone
Numb hums begun
When this thunder does bedizen you,
The lightening does enlighten, true
But the prices are not my vices rightened for you,
I've surmised a prize of a more biting view
It might be right to lose sight
Of the delights of tonight's plights
I slight fights
I blight contrite bending
But this ripe, spiteful spate of trite infights trending
Indicts a tending
Benights, invites, ignites a new intending
A descent now rendered impending; an ending
Apr 11, 2015
Apr 11, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
_I BECAME MY FEAR_
~~A POEM~~
The Night *came too suddenly,
As men ignited fear and thrill.
The river became a haven, where loss and found entwined alike*
The Storm *bemoaned the wind as air concurred the aftermath
And the wailing of the dear broken souls flashed like Sun lost amidst the skies*
The end *was never near
The morrow was too close
The night never stood still
And the thoughts were too piercing*
The sadness *only lingered in tears
But the fear held all the lies*
The fear indicted the earth
The rain *sealed the tear
And the tear ripped the stare
The arrows began flying
The assumptions began fading
And only the whisper we could hear
within a hollow filter
beneath a broken chasm
underneath a sunken crevice
Through services of abysses
Locked within a thousand paves of fear
saddened by the river behind the years
mourning the lost wanton spheres
prying, yet crying at the unseen tragedy
that lurks dwindling in a foreseen world,
Where fear permits the doubters to wallow away in tears
And so sad, they never see the light*
Ovi©
All right reserved/Dec 2016
Dec 17, 2016
Dec 17, 2016 at 2:31 AM UTC