Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
allan harold rex May 2012
Rustle in the leaves,
tussle with the vines,
afoot in the tree of life,
the gutsy snake coiling,
Raddled and rattled with mans sin,
Divulgence to the loner who cherished the fruit,
in the dusky orange red skies which brought in the adhen
and from the tolling bells in the distant church ,
While the snake lolloped in the stark blue skies,
Manipulating this oppo for the abyss.
The wandering seam of the night,moon,
With flickering light forbade the seance on the seemlessly never ending night,
Pity the snake for another morn would rise
For it will have to go to the *** ,no the pit.
The ***** and cuckoo within cooee , chanted and coerced another morn out !
Following the sun like the grail, the people lounged in to the waters of the ganges.
While broods of hurted children huddled in hate,
hurling stones at the traitor.
Hauling the renegade into the throngs,
Hunnish hands assaulted him until he swooned in to the motherlands lap,
Hue and cry of the avengers brought in the tripper,
Heavy loads hugged on to his shoulders,
In poise words he spoke,
''for every creation has its flaws,
And when we batter on the withered soul,
It leaves the barren man dry again,
To ward off evil is like blowing into the forges of Vulcan,
And only when tests and temptations are burnt in the bonfires of joy,
will man be moulded into a joyous being''
Hissing whisphers from the crowd spoke,
Heresy of the tripper is the hold,
Hasten yourself and bring our brother medication,
Hunt down the snake will we,
For this vagabond has spoken in verses,
Only to be filed in the trippers travelogue.
Hushed up as the snake in the pit.
Sara Trif Fonte Nov 2015
WANDERING THOUGHTS
hold that drop of water , lest it flow away,
my throat is burning ,but your wound is fresh,
You need it, if you were to stay.
The cold air is piercing my face
I have no means to convey...
That you must hold that drop in the palm of your hand,
that i wish for you to stay.
I scan your face,but i see no feeling.
i search the horizon ,but see not a soul.
I have never been so furtive, the glances i am stealing...
I gently close,narrowly tread when the road bends toward the unknown,
Sunder-bans and freezing peaks and the golden Indian shore.
A land not just of snake charmers , of beauty, of galore .
I stand alone you by my side but still not there to be '
While you scream in myriad tongues ,
i don't understand the words you utter,
But this is our story,
We're lost, we're found...
the globe the map of our minds, yet we've never been wronged,
by each other, by home , by our motherlands
Cause i'm a vagrant, you a vagabond.
migayle ocuaman Jul 2019
Here I say farewell my dear friend
For its off for me to walk and go once again
The call of death that whistle the end
Above the field where no man has conquered but only lay the dead
Fear not my friend nor shed a tear in my dread
Yesteryear's youth that blossom the seasons golden past
Keep within me those gay memories of spring
For the dark storms and fierce fire shall consume me and my comrades
Light a candle in my door step will please
So if I may fall in this foreign field and my body swallowed by the soil
My soul may find its way back to the motherlands shore.

— The End —