Empty stories

Folder: 
book 11

I am told

     that I should write

lines that will

     a picture make

 

cold breeze blows

     bearing all warmth away

carrying just a whisper

     softly to my ears

 

a distant sound

     I can barely hear

somewhere distant

     somewhere far away

 

and I do gaze

     looking about

that my eyes might find

     from once it comes

 

in the distance

     I can see

dark shadows

     that move towards me

 

somehow inside

     a growing fear

a growing tremble

     the weakens me

 

darkness flows towards me now

     on rising wind of freezing cold

a growing thunder I can hear

     making now my muscles weak

 

in fearful gaze I cannot see

     what it is approaching me

it has no form of sharp lines

     nor colors bright that I can see

 

no raking angles corners form

     of colors bright of blue red and green

just dark grayness undefined

     is the darkness rushing towards me

 

rumbling roar greatly grows

     but no lightning flashing bright

no sharp sound to understand

     and no meaning to be found

 

rushing wind rips at my clothes

     and all my warmth is carried away

and filled with fear I am overwhelmed

     at the darkness so undefined

 

a pinpoint of brightness forms

     but it lies within of me

of colors warm the slowly fill

     and blooms with hope that I can feel

 

flowing darkness that does not define

     evil menace that fills the mind

sharp angles hard that pierce the heart

     cannot stand pure art

 

of words like these I would not write

     that brings no passion to the heart

give no reason to stop and think

     a different picture that each might see

 

 

 

I would of emotions paint

     speak of love in the warm sunshine

 

laying mid flowers blooming bright

soft scents carried upon warm breeze

hearts that beat within the breast

     hopes that soar in summer’s breeze

 

but hard angles do they want

     squares and circles and angles sharp

reds and blues and purples and pink

     and slashing rain so freezing cold

 

lightning flashes and thunder roars

     freezing wind ripping warmth away

cold rain falling slashing hard

     hard cold road of blackest form

 

not of love and beauty warmth

     flowing curves the draw the eye

rhythmic motions that call within

     emotions flowing to overwhelm

 

what I would write they do not want

     and so hard choices I must make

to write to what they would hear

     or of the words that I would say

 

I will choose the other path

     I walk the way that I would go

and if it be I walk alone

     and that is the path that I shall choose

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