Willow

My hands they scream, they scream in pain and no delight
That which was built has fallen unto the seaside, swallowed in the sand
oh how they cry thy hands from which that was built
fallen it has from carelessness and sighs of pseudo emotions I have had
now once felt was a lie the tears upon the green scales she cries
she never loved me or the hands that now cry
goodbye she says as my emotions turn
from the inferno to the freeze of her shoulders that are now to be
to isolate me, to isolate thy hands that caressed whom I now blatantly speak.
Passing seasons of many dawns I have seen,
the lake of fire freezes as my heart to her I speak
Willow, that which I have cried now my dearest I say good bye.

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goes the heart

Now silence the lonely heart, the nights scream with its demise
Repose of dawn never to arrive it is nil to the sobbing night
He what was or she that will never be in the solace of the night, the heart went
The moon eclipses behind the sorrow, the stars weep and shined nevermore
My darling what it was to whom it was never to be
The scenery of the horizon goes bare from shame never to know the name
What thee was were illusion within the stream, now from the gods I must always see
Till that stream runs dry and beckon the dawn to rise upon the night
I shall always see, see that which haunts me,
Now goes the heart unto the night, sweet sorrow that which i abide.

pastoral

Sweeping grandeur of a pastoral sight
The late barley grows as the sun retires for the night,
A questing thought roars upon my mind
A peaceful sense it gives like crashing waves upon the seaside,
The evening’s twilight starts to occupy the countryside
As the fireflies glow with a twinkle in my sight.
Upon my memory symphony no. 6 plays
Soon I will lay my head upon a pillow,
Turning not to notice the barren side of my humble bed;
It is always seem to me that life is just reliving a memory,
Yet how I wish I could pause the sight
Of the lightening bugs in the moonlight,
Yet I too; as all men must, reach the end of my memory
To see the true pastoral life that lies beyond our sight.

beloved muse

An Elysian choir of physical being
What heart would not pant for such a scene,
My soul reaches as a root reaches for water
As branches spread for the rain so does my prose,
with my words I exclaim the sight of serenity
with my eyes I gaze at exquisiteness divine:
materialization of Cupid’s prayers
manifestation of the sonatas of Baroque,
a creeping terror would transform into magnificence
the beauties of the Greeks would never compare.
Again my words are unsigned my intent mysterious;
to believe such things is to know they would fade,
if I ever was to say what sight I see in you,
you would turn from that image of
the sole beauty that is, my beloved muse.

promise

Shattering glass upon the ocean floor
Arise from the depths and as it dries a desert forms
Thus this desert the forgotten must walk,
What lies within mirage of a promise
I bequest honey yet I have none
I cry to a moon I never seen yet believe.

A tattered robe as it degrades within the air
Left at the mercy of the sun yet no clouds to break its stare
nevertheless I walk unto the mirage
where the teats of calves shall he feed
the honey runneth from the trees.

as the sun sets upon a lifelong voyage
clouds crash upon the sky opening a downfall
the ocean returns and as the forgotten struggles, he’s casted unto sleep
and upon the return of light the forgotten becomes man
he wakes upon the shore of a promise.

lunar sight

Descending light upon the powder blue sky
Soon shall come the night,
A rest for the weary creatures of day
while they sleep within the moon’s gaze,
A sight that brings a stoic reference upon my heart
and soul soon to take part,
Crackling blaze of the open fire
the cedar burns and emits a sense of peaceful desire,
Maybe I as well will feel rest
before the evening is at apex.

i have, there is not

Broken seam unclothing my own
a salty breeze emulated my ease
what to be done are fallen thoughts
a rise of emotions within my soul,
Roses fall within the bloom of the oak
gone the suspicions with the early dew…
the tide crashes as the end comes
thus the rain is still, the moment is still
lord help me I finally feel, I have crested
yet I am only to fall and chase this moment,
until I know the rose I wanted was given,
for the oak I could never own.