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"betorn" poems
The soft wind yet breaks on my cheek, Its frigidness does my heart keep, Inside its breath and wantings weep, I lost everything in the haze of sleep. - Upon a drifting willow's bark, I spied the sights of twisting arc, The ax that had here made its mark, Had morosely torn the tree apart. - I found there that nothing may change, Yet everything has something to gain, The profit in sales of wilting and pain, Has lead to self-proclaimed "insane." - Footprints in sand with tide washed away, Echoes enchant the hive mind, astray I walk only to get through wretched today, Tomorrow holds no reason to stay. - Love contaminates the air I breath, Infections break in my head and seethe How does one follow this revolting creed? I know not this virtue, it escapes me. - No folly of mine found in books of lore, I'm not kept hero in tomes of yore, I remember naught of all before, And I lay down to die in the awaiting shore. - Bitter and relentless does my heart scorn, That I wish to remove it and flesh betorn, That my hopes may bring sickle to corn, That I pray for mourning's distant morn.
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Aug 13, 2013
Aug 13, 2013 at 3:52 AM UTC
andrew-p-marheine
Mourning's Morn.
The soft wind yet breaks on my cheek, Its frigidness does my heart keep, Inside its breath and wantings weep, I lost everything in the haze of sleep. - Upon a drifting willow's bark, I spied the sights of twisting arc, The ax that had here made its mark, Had morosely torn the tree apart. - I found there that nothing may change, Yet everything has something to gain, The profit in sales of wilting and pain, Has lead to self-proclaimed "insane." - Footprints in sand with tide washed away, Echoes enchant the hive mind, astray I walk only to get through wretched today, Tomorrow holds no reason to stay. - Love contaminates the air I breath, Infections break in my head and seethe How does one follow this revolting creed? I know not this virtue, it escapes me. - No folly of mine found in books of lore, I'm not kept hero in tomes of yore, I remember naught of all before, And I lay down to die in the awaiting shore. - Bitter and relentless does my heart scorn, That I wish to remove it and flesh betorn, That my hopes may bring sickle to corn, That I pray for mourning's distant morn.
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