Espionage

Folder: 
No Eyelids

 

The secretive nature of mankind

journeys into mundane maelstrom which

weeping together spirals and entwines

and honors only darkness and the witch.

 

Delving through martyrdom matters,

our ceaseless souls trying to make meaning.

Lost love is still triumphant and gleeming

and even so paints the remniscent patterns.

 

Breath becomes our only hope, as our bones

wither and silence themselves thinking,

"The air is enough life force for our growth,"

especially spiritually as the brink

 

of insignificance compels nature to

bless inheritance towards new pure stuff

and a day of bright beginning -- but blur

ever stifles us and creates a grudge.

 

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J9thxciv's picture

You should be very proud of

You should be very proud of this poem.  The verbal alliteration makes it seem like music, and the wisdom of the last stanza is intensely profound!


J9thxciv, fka Starward

[* /+/ ^]

Dalton's picture

Thanks. Methinks wisdom is a

Thanks. Methinks wisdom is a pillar in literature, and virtue.