"sighingly" poems
Ah, woe is me for pleasure that is vain,
Ah, woe is me for glory that is past:
Pleasure that bringeth sorrow at the last,
Glory that at the last bringeth no gain!
So saith the sinking heart; and so again
It shall say till the mighty angel-blast
Is blown, making the sun and moon aghast,
And showering down the stars like sudden rain.
And evermore men shall go fearfully,
Bending beneath their weight of heaviness;
And ancient men shall lie down wearily,
And strong men shall rise up in weariness;
Yea, even the young shall answer sighingly,
Saying one to another: How vain it is!
2.7k
There she sat, in the faint yellow light,
in nothing but white lingerie,
a box of cigarettes to keep her company.
There she sits, soaked in smoke, viscous grey,
something to please her schizophrenic perception,
something to unburden her, remind her of her God-given free will,
a term rather easily scribbled on papers.
It was not materialism she sought,
she aspired for something far greater,
she wanted a sense of freedom,
to know what it’s like to be unchained;
even if it lasted mere ticks.
Deep breath, she no longer sits on her bed,
for the first time in her life, she was… free.
Two passers-by glimpsed overhead,
sighingly mumbled, “don’ya ever wish to flee?”
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 6:15 AM UTC