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Espionage
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DEAD MEMORY
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.
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!
Starward