"gleamed" poems
the sunflowers gleamed
in the noon day sun
their flourish of color
couldn't be out done
the sparrows flitted
above their ravishing visages
they were enchanted
by their dazzling mirages
Mar 15, 2013
Mar 15, 2013 at 12:00 PM UTC
the sunflowers gleamed
in the noon day sun
their flourish of colour
couldn't be out done
the sparrows flitted
above their ravishing visages
they were enchanted
by their dazzling mirages
Oct 20, 2013
Oct 20, 2013 at 8:32 AM UTC
The Red Ants At His Picnic
Her pillow eyes gleamed
at his advances,
inching along slowly.
His anteater likeness,
rising,
coming to an anthem,
frolicking on her picnic,
on her mound,
hoarse and hungrily.
Rendevous antics to form.
Wave after wave,
the red ants at his picnic,
dancing,
dancing like there's no tomorrow,
seducing him in further.
He,
so antsy,
anticipating.
In his genre,
happily along,
on her trail,
like a hunter,
taking her welcoming little red colony,
to kingdom
come.
To ******* come,
where her castle and moats succumb,
relenting,
saluting to his anthem.
Where soon white clouds a bursting,
blue skies emerging.
The sublimity and antidote holding on,
holding on to her picnic.
And the rocket's did red glare,
the bombs bursting in air-
together,
to gather.
And there they were ... chaos, abuzz,
lyrical
then calm.
Sustenance drawn on their faces.
A slight breeze runs through the grass
the red ants at bay.
Logan Robertson
4/17/2018
Apr 17, 2018
Apr 17, 2018 at 6:15 PM UTC
With the peak of spring in the month of May
In the early hours of a pleasantly sunlit day
Two kids sat cuddled on a swing
Feeling as though they were taking on wing
Swinging in the air, they began to sing
Their sweet lay breaking the silence with its ring
They kicked their legs in rising delight
And felt like thistledowns ever so light
Up and down on the swing was fun
They closed their eyes on being face to face with the sun
Felt the swish and sway of the buoyant air
And knew the light tug of breeze on their curly hair
As the air got caught in the frills of their frock
Their eyes gleamed bright in delightful spark
Imagining themselves to be astronauts in space,
An ebullient excitement lit up their face
From a raised angle, they saw the Earth in green folds lie
Watched the surrounding hills standing awfully high
Saw a small stream flowing as a slow moving train
With trees lined up on its banks in unbroken chain
Longingly I watched these children free of all worry and pain
Also their aerial feats, not tainted by any melancholy stain
How I miss these childhood days of innocent fun
As my hours, towards the sunset, quickly run
May 6, 2016
May 6, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
Somewhere beneath that piano's superb sleek black
Must hide my mother's piano, little and brown with the back
That stood close to the wall, and the front's faded silk, both torn
And the keys with little hollows, that my mother's fingers had worn.
Softly, in the shadows, a woman is singing to me
Quietly, through the years I have crept back to see
A child sitting under the piano, in the boom of the shaking strings
Pressing the little poised feet of the mother who smiles as she sings
The full throated woman has chosen a winning, living song
And surely the heart that is in me must belong
To the old Sunday evenings, when darkness wandered outside
And hymns gleamed on our warm lips, as we watched mother's fingers glide
Or this is my sister at home in the old front room
Singing love's first surprised gladness, alone in the gloom.
She will start when she sees me, and blushing, spread out her hands
To cover my mouth's raillery, till I'm bound in her shame's heart-spun bands
A woman is singing me a wild Hungarian air
And her arms, and her ***** and the whole of her soul is bare
And the great black piano is clamouring as my mother's never could clamour
And the tunes of the past are devoured of this music's ravaging glamour.
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The divine walkway
To the river-side
Has began to warp in
Singing and whooping with love,
But I was in the palace
To witness the examination,
See how the evening sky
Has suffered with crimson
And delight, awaiting
The gorgeous joy of the dawn,
How can the nations
Begin this monthly journey
With a broken arm?
The old gossip proclaimed that
Mother Africa caused the
*** to burst into loud wails
Early on that faithful morning,
Whiles the companions took
No pain to grace the occasion,
Oh gosh, is that the time?
Is that an absolute
Gospel of the gory spectacle?
Indeed, we need to offer
Sacrifices of praise
To propitiate the gods,
Let the gracious protocol begin!
Mothers, please cover
That beautiful black skin
With that sunblock sheabutter cream,
And cover that gracious hips
With that piece of kente cloth,
My dear, please
Taste the sacred food
And swallow the egg also,
For sitting on a golden stool
Which stands on a precious mat,
Has become good news for the ancestors,
Now perceive this,
When the moonlight slipped
Past the curled edges
Of the shades of nature, and
The children faces gleamed,
I knew I had
Fallen victim to the sensual
Lures and snares of the
Twin towers protruding
From your glorious chest,
You have indeed kindled
The eternal flame within me,
My black eternal beauty,
You are truly
A fine African woman.
© PRINCE NANA ANIN-AGYEI
Email: [email protected]
Apr 7, 2013
Apr 7, 2013 at 12:55 PM UTC
As days jitter by gleamed with such sheer and merry,
Then comes the memoriam-filled allegory;
Called the times of meditation and redemption,
Purple-shrouded cloth with blood has brought salvation.
40 days to drop down and be poured on ashes,
40 nights to commemorate for such dashes;
A memoir to be sung, flinging an elegy,
Sacrifice of the Son tuned to a eulogy.
But have no disheartened faith heard on stricken grief,
For a promise of sacrifice is worth that brief;
It’s the moment to recall, repent, and renew,
Making a mark not turn to long the past askew.
Lenten season speaks of turning from the darkness,
Losing a part to share with Him pure happiness;
Just as Christ suffered for the shortcomings of men,
His Church must respect and join for the time given.
So do not grieve for his loss, or that of your own,
It will be worth such a gain and it shall be sown;
For that choice, a short-time loss is a long-time gain,
With God, He provides us courage to surpass pain.
Such as to come thwart on our midst His forthcoming,
Prepare not only now but till life deems rusting;
But until time hovers to an eternal halt,
Apprehend, amend on such light and grave faults.
Jul 6, 2014
Jul 6, 2014 at 9:14 PM UTC
With the onset of the sun in the horizon, the little creatures awake
And dance and sing melodies tantamount to a group of chortling people
Oh, how i wish such convival sights be captured
And played back on repeat everytime you feel low
As vagabonds they fly in search of food and shelter
And when the sun does set, off they disappear in their nests
Robbing the nature of its beauty
For every day they have to give a survival test(from their carnivore counterparts)
The broke pigeon was no different, her eyes gleamed better than Cindrella's did
The vicissitudes of life had rendered it to be a mendicant.
But she was a resilient creature and she continued her fight everyday
Her condition started to exacerbate when she laid 4 snow like eggs
Gathering twig by twig and working for an entire afternoon meticulously
She made a perfect home for her babies which were about to hatch
Be it a human or a bird, mothers always foster the children
Off she slipped into a reverie of a bright future with her kids
But the evil nature had its own sinister plans
Her thoughts were interrupted by a cacophony of sounds of other birds
She knew the sound was ominous
Peeping out of the nest she saw a dozen eagles encircling the tree
Her blood ran cold, she wrapped the eggs around her and a teardrop made its way from her eye
The leader of the eagles stoop towards her and hit her with a beak
The broke pigeon pleaded for its life saying-"I will offer myself to you as soon as my kids learn to fly"
The Machiavillian eagle agreed at first, flew up high,leaving the broke pigeon to heave a sigh of relief
The sigh was a short lived one as it swoop down with two other eagles on the broke pigeon
Performing an act of utter perfidy, there was a sly smile on its face
Turn by turn they devoured the broke pigeon
And kicked the eggs down the nest
It was a brutal ****** much more heinous than the ones we see
But there was none to witness the fate of the broke pigeon
And even if there were, they'd never know the events that transpired
Never know.. never know.. never know..
Dec 17, 2013
Dec 17, 2013 at 11:15 AM UTC
Out in the children’s playground
On the wasteland, near the flat,
There once was a shiny roundabout
They called ‘The Witches Hat’,
It hung from a greasy centre pole
And would spin, just like a top,
For once that we set it spinning
It would take an hour to stop.
They painted the Hat in black shellac
So it gleamed beneath the sun,
But stood like an evil entity, in the dark
When the day was done,
We never ventured abroad by night
For the land, we thought, was cursed,
With the Witches Hat a reminder of
Just what had stood there first.
Once it had been a Magic Wood
With Elves, and Grimms and Ghosts,
Witches covens and Goblins ovens
We heard about the most,
The land was cleared for a new estate
And they called the land a park,
But nights you heard the muffled shuffle
Of dancing, in the dark.
It was then that they set the Witches Hat
Up on a pole to spin,
One of us ran around with it
While others sat on the brim,
We always ran with it clockwise
Then stood back to count the spins,
For Mother Malloy had warned us
Never to turn it widdershins.
She said it would stop the earth, and that
The sun would go back down,
The Prince of Darkness lay in wait
For the Witches Hat, his crown,
We thought that she must be bonkers
And we laughed each time she frowned,
But never would spin the Witches Hat
Not once, the other way round.
But then on an Autumn afternoon
When the nights were coming in,
Mother said, ‘Take your brother out,
Go take him out for a spin.’
She wanted to clean the house, she said,
‘And you’re always in the way!’
So I took young Robin out with me,
He’d just turned four that day.
I put him up on the Witches Hat
And I spun, and spun him round,
But Robin was a querulous child
And he cried, to put him down.
So then in a bloody-minded mood
And after a dozen spins,
I stopped the Hat and I turned it round,
And ran with it, widdershins.
It must have been almost dusk by then
For the sun dropped into the ground,
The Moon came up with a silver beam
And it lit the whole surround,
I ran as fast as I’d ever run
And the Hat spun like a top,
Robin sat on the opposite side
So I’d see him, once I’d stop.
I ran until I was out of breath
Then I stopped to watch it spin,
But no-one was on the Witches Hat
And I felt the fear begin,
I searched and scoured the land around
And I crawled beneath the Hat,
The little fellow had disappeared
So I ran back home to the flat.
I’ll always remember that awful day,
The day when the fates were cast,
I’d spun him into the future, or
I’d left him there in the past,
I shouldn’t have turned it widdershins
But now can’t bring him back,
At night it gleams in a pale moonbeam
That terrible Witches Hat!
David Lewis Paget
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 12:16 AM UTC
i.
Mine admiration for her
Daily doth beam;
Hour's passeth by, with meteor shower's aloft the Sky's
I'll awaiteth a million year's for mine queen.
ii.
In mine sleep, betwixt mine dream's
No ado shalt get in between, none evil, nor fiend's;
Laughter and light, in struck night's, angel polite
Amour in flight, wherein all is right, crystal gleamed.
iii.
I'll dye the scene, a daffodil coloration
I'll be here mine sweet, I'm not leaving, I'm patient;
On other planet's, or nation's, wherever I shalt be
I promise mine lass, mine half, I'll be waiting for thee.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poet's poetry
©Earl jane nagley dedication ( Filipino rose)
Sep 30, 2015
Sep 30, 2015 at 5:52 PM UTC
a small teaspoon
of sweet brown sugar
sprinkled on her nose
her brown hair cascaded
down her back
her dark blue eyes gleamed
in generosity and beauty.
they grew,
beginning to splotch
everywhere upon her face.
some called her ugly,
despite her vibrant eyes
her long wavy hair,
others,
her mum, to be specific,
said she was amazing
and looked fantastic
and who wouldn’t want
‘beautiful’ freckles?
the insults didn’t stop,
they flew
at the girl with freckles
like peter pan
charging through the air
at top speeds.
as the girl with freckles
grew up,
she and they started to
accept the fact that
the shining sun created
gifted,
granted
her with
brown-sugar
freckles.
Oct 19, 2016
Oct 19, 2016 at 12:44 AM UTC
Sitting in a restaurant
Over a cup of coffee
And silently having our dinner
With hardly anything exciting
Either to brag or blather
My eyes got hooked
On the occupants of the table, next
Two kids, seated on small chairs
A boy and a girl, obviously a pair of twins
Adorably cute, their father, so young
Who having placed the order
Were in wait for their turn
Carrying a tray, as the waiter arrived
With something of the plainest kind,
Small cartons of French fries,
Bottles of sauce and plain ice cream
The little faces gleamed in excitement
Their beaded eyes riveted,
And their heads bobbed in happy approval
As their Dad opened the carton
And placed before them
French fries sprinkled with some sauce
The children, sprang to their feet
With an upsurge of delight,
Jumping up and down,
Clapping their hands and shouting!
At a small distance, sat we
‘Solemnly’ consuming our meal
With nothing to titillate our palette
Or excite our toned nerves
I thought;
How, in course of time,
Everything becomes a routine ritual
And what stark difference
Between our subdued composure
And the overwhelming excitement of kids!
They haven’t learned yet
That such open expression of emotions,
Is not in keeping with accepted norms
To what peaks of joy, they get catapulted
With mere trifles and silly baubles
While we remain ever at the bottom
Unable to be lifted up
Is this what we call aging?
Or is it
The death of spring
The summer’s dirge
Autumn’s mellowing
Or the chill wave of winter’s blast??
Jan 11, 2017
Jan 11, 2017 at 6:39 AM UTC
Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;
The dew that chanted the tale of his birth
Gleamed in the palm of the lotus leaf;
The flower which stood for his grace on earth
Spread their aroma to void all grief;
Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;
Loud and clear, the skylark sings,
A cluster full of joy it brings;
Dancing in glee, the tulips many,
Clouds and mountains too join the symphony;
Its Christmas! Its Christmas!
The skies have early said,
As the winter brings the bliss
Of berries blue and red;
-Anil Kumar A R
Aug 28, 2014
Aug 28, 2014 at 10:49 AM UTC
So… he looked on, watching from afar the imagery of family.
Now alone, sitting in place on an old cranky stubborn
porch, eighty-one years of tears laughter and memory/smiled;
his smiled gleamed through the haze and humidly
of another summer day: a day that reminded him
of his younger years when the joy in many eyes gathered
for a day of barbecue and rejoice
in his voice, as his raspy cough briefly interrupted the moment,
was the song of an elderly man missing the days of innocence
but briefly in this time, in the sight of the young boy
he now studied from across the street
he saw a familiarity. His vision saw support and togetherness;
his hearing heard the song of compassion
and in the charcoaled flavored heat, his heart felt
what he thought was forgotten;
the genius and destiny of hope. In his life he has seen
once inspiring brick-layered sidewalks become the mask
of crime that has kidnapped a neighborhood once
proud. He has seen the dreams of children become temporarily
paralyzed by the heights of poverty and many visions
of fear. He watched in silence over all these years
but the tears of his mind has always been vocal.
The shackles
of osteoarthritis that now held on to his bones and the slight
battle with old-aged deafness that now challenged
the vibration of harmony and not even the parade
of high blood pressure marching through his veins
could keep him from feeling the pain and decay
of days passed. But as he looked on at the sight
of burgers and hotdogs sizzling on the grill; as he looked on
at the pleasantries of young and old joining in good times
and fun playing the games of life; as he looked on
and lived again through the body language of the young boy
who now looked back at him
he saw the glimpse of renewal in a community
holding on to the aspects of a neighborhood’s inheritance.
For the first time in many decades, he saw the enjoyment
in dancing trees that waltzed in the breezes of tomorrow;
he felt shades of sweat trickle down his bronzed almond skin
that was the welcomed condensation of happiness
and he smelled a renewed energy of genetic fortitude
that was family all in the aroma of summer cooking --
and so…he dreamed on.
Jul 8, 2012
Jul 8, 2012 at 9:47 AM UTC
Dear native brook! wild streamlet of the West!
How many various-fated years have passed,
What happy and what mournful hours, since last
I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
Numbering its light leaps! Yet so deep impressed
Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
I never shut amid the sunny ray,
But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes,
Gleamed through thy bright transparence! On my way,
Visions of childhood! oft have ye beguiled
Lone manhood’s cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
Ah! that once more I were a careless child!
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Sapphire drops of moonlight bounced off her umbrella and a cool, smoky mist escaped her crimson lips every once and so often.There she stood alone, on a loud, bright and miserable winters’ night. Pensively gazing over the glistening city streets before her.
Echoes of light gleamed from the windows of bars and cafes. Reflections of lover’s kisses melted in a cold November rain. Live music, laughter, conversation! O what a cheerful sight is the city at night, for all but one this evening.
Such striking acts of delight and love did nothing but depress her.
This loner longs to stand with the pack and live her life, instead of merely existing. She is the Steppenwolf of her time. Unwanted and alone. And much like the original Steppenwolf, she gives and cares for others very much like family. Alas, despite her best efforts, she could never fit in.
And perhaps, never will.
Nov 3, 2015
Nov 3, 2015 at 7:51 AM UTC
The clouds as I see them, rising
urgently, roseate in the
mounting of somber power
surging in evening haste over
roofs and hermetic
grim walls—
Last night
As if death had lit a pale light
in your flesh, your flesh
was cold to my touch, or not cold
but cool, cooling, as if the last traces
of warmth were still fading in you.
My thigh burned in cold fear where
yours touched it.
But I forced to mind my vision of a sky
close and enclosed, unlike the space in which these clouds move—
a sky of gray mist it appeared—
and how looking intently at it we saw
its gray was not gray but a milky white
in which radiant traces of opal greens,
fiery blues, gleamed, faded, gleamed again,
and how only then, seeing the color in the gray,
a field sprang into sight, extending
between where we stood and the horizon,
a field of freshest deep spiring grass
starred with dandelions,
green and gold
gold and green alternating in closewoven
chords, madrigal field.
Is death’s chill that visited our bed
other than what it seemed, is it
a gray to be watched keenly?
Wiping my glasses and leaning westward,
clearing my mind of the day’s mist and leaning
into myself to see
the colors of truth
I watch the clouds as I see them
in pomp advancing, pursuing
the fallen sun.
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All Things Galore
by Michael R. Burch
(for my grandfathers George Edwin Hurt Sr. and Paul Ray Burch, Sr.)
Grandfather,
now in your gray presence
you are
somehow more near
and remind me that,
once, upon a star,
you taught me
wish
that ululate soft phrase,
that hopeful phrase!
and everywhere above, each hopeful star
gleamed down
and seemed to speak of times before
when you clasped my small glad hand
in your wise paw
and taught me heaven, omen, meteor ...
Keywords/Tags: family, grandfather, grandchild, grandson, teacher, mentor, example, guide, guidance, guru
Apr 14, 2020
Apr 14, 2020 at 10:42 PM UTC
When ranchers decide to do a thing,
Sometimes they just go through it.
What follows is a little fling
A neighbor did...don't do it.
The clearing of the land requires a little fortitude
Some ingenuity, and luck, and not a little courage.
So A.D. Volbrecht's story, though a little crude,
Is only strange to those who eat milk toast and porridge.
Rather than tear an old house down to clear a farming space,
A.D. enlisted help from his oldest son to haul the thing away.
Together then, the two grown men took on a moving race
To see if they could jack the house and move it in one day.
The morning saw a Donahue, low slung and meant to haul,
Waiting as the house was raised, (unsteady on new legs)
Then slowly lowered down again. T'would make a feller bawl
To see the old home place prepare to pack its bags.
Son Zane began a steady pull to move the old house home,
And A.D. took his place in front, flashers and flags to warn.
Slow going was their pace, and traffic stopped up some;
The actual move was tougher than the plan they'd formed.
So seven miles became a half a day, and challenges arose
How ever would they move the thing through town?
The power lines and traffic cops were obstacles; who knows
What kinds of tickets they'd be writing down?
Up ahead the airport gleamed, the tarmac shimmered black.
"Aha!" old A.D. cried, "I've found the way around!"
Hard left he turned on a county road, and cut the fence in back
And guided Zane and the old home shack to airport ground.
Western Airways flight was due sometime that afternoon;
Old AD rattled on up Runway One, old pickup running fast,
To find a gate to let the old house through, (and none too soon);
The tractor and its load sputtered through the parking lot at last.
In June a few years back, a farmer and his son pulled off a heist.
Stole some runway time and cut their journey short...
No harm done, though they'd never do it twice
Without winding up defenseless in the county court.
Apr 10, 2013
Apr 10, 2013 at 7:56 AM UTC
I am so very broke, I can’t afford to pay it thought.
Fettered in a cage by poverty, left only to pray and rot.
The feathers of my soul have been tarred and stained by life.
So much so, I'm not sure if they'll ever again shine bright.
This Bird in my heart used to sing for my hopes and dreams;
Mourning every tragedy with requiems that gleamed.
A little Canary to be all mine until the very end of time,
Staving off this cold world and reminding me I'm fine.
This poverty starved her slow and deep, down to the very core.
Melodies that once remedied despair gone forevermore.
Nowadays, all I can ever do is reminisce about that yellow bird;
How she'd bring warmth to my life's cold hell of a blur.
The way our voices would harmonize on little notes;
Prophecies of a better future foretold from our nook.
That's why I still cling to the distant sound of their words,
Because they ramble on in me until nothing seems absurd.
I like to think she still sings sometimes, though no sound is heard.
That music of hope rings in my mind still, all thanks to Bird.
Jun 12, 2019
Jun 12, 2019 at 4:31 PM UTC
i.
In the Aeonian of the lifetime's
We shalt formeth together;
Lifeline's.
ii.
We shalt be aesthete's
Museum enthusiast's;
Of chariot's, and cherub's.
iii.
Aeviternal through the ion's
Cascarilla of incense burning;
Smoke to riseth ourn hearth.
iv.
A catena of both of ourn novel's
The fireplace, wood gleamed;
Ourn silhouette's making love to the shadow's.
©Brandon nagley
©Lonesome poets poetry
©Earl Jane nagley/ Filipino rose dedication
Sep 5, 2015
Sep 5, 2015 at 1:14 PM UTC
You came to me many times
In distress and in shambles
I held you close and gave comfort
I let you sadly ramble
I was there for you
In loneliness, grief, and success
You were there for me as well
When life gave me the hardest test
But what I could not see
You hid behind a veil
It distorted what I saw
It corrupted that which I felt
This veil of sorts
I would call it a mask
Allowed you to take things from me
As you creaked in from the back
You snuck up behind me
You defiled what I confided
It wasn't my friendship you were after
It was the one that betrayed me in which you were guided
This mask it so blocked
That which I could not see
Your eyes of deceit
And your face as it gleamed
For the one that was not
For the one that was coarse
It gleamed for the one
That one to whom you showed remorse
Of all the time we spent
Bonding and growing
It is with her now
Her now with which you are moaning
In the bed which her and I shared
Many a heated and passionate night
To where my unmentionables were stored
In her body so tight
Live your life with one eye
As it looks out far and beyond
For it is I that will be creaking
Creaking up behind you one morn.
Oct 5, 2012
Oct 5, 2012 at 6:02 AM UTC
I walked along the mountain stream
Where dancing sunbeams shone and gleamed
It was such a peaceful place
The gentle breeze carressed my face
I came across a country stile
Where I could sit and think awhile
Far away from this dangerous world
The natural beauty just unfurled.
Keith Wilson. Windermere. UK 2016.
Oct 17, 2016
Oct 17, 2016 at 7:03 AM UTC
9
Through lane it lay—through bramble—
Through clearing and through wood—
Banditti often passed us
Upon the lonely road.
The wolf came peering curious—
The owl looked puzzled down—
The serpent’s satin figure
Glid stealthily along—
The tempests touched our garments—
The lightning’s poinards gleamed—
Fierce from the Crag above us
The hungry Vulture screamed—
The satyr’s fingers beckoned—
The valley murmured “Come”—
These were the mates—
This was the road
Those children fluttered home.
2.8k
Walking through a forest,
I saw something shine.
A man made of tin,
Hidden in leaves and vines.
I brushed off the soil,
And tore through the leaves.
Sat him up against a trunk,
And his body of metal gleamed.
Cogs whirred and lights flashed,
As he stood and shook.
He began to walk rigidly,
At me he looked.
We walked through firs,
Past rivers and trails.
He took my hand yet,
He felt so frail.
His body started to creak,
As rain drizzled down.
Rust began to form,
And his life-force began to drown.
He stopped near the water
And fell to the floor.
His tin loud in the clearing,
I’d heard that sound before.
His lights began to flicker,
His cogs slowed to a tick.
I sat and watched him,
Tears sprang as I blinked.
The clearing went quiet,
The water made no din.
My robot friend had ceased,
Our friendship was never to begin.
I walked out of the forest,
Knowing he’d stay.
Man of tin has no heart,
Just cogs, lights, and metal of grey.
Oct 16, 2012
Oct 16, 2012 at 3:22 PM UTC