Trees waver to the cool wind. Swaying with no agency to be. Quiet tears fall from broken hearts, sheets hold the lonesome. An empty glass stained in lips of red. Sour aroma lingers from the mouth.
Rain tumbles with urgency to flood what begs to hold. Washing away dusted cheeks; hesitation to step out grasps the flesh. Eyes interpret the morning view. Hazed in a daze of last nights time. Lethargic tones whisper among the head.
Clouds cover the blue, rejecting the season to be new. Gloom disperses the sun, leaving minds numb in hope with empty rhythm. The carrying of pollen leaving septum's to run. Insects victim to the spectrum of predator tongue.
Asylum lost in the changing of weather. A chaotic idiom of misery and love. Fickle criticism of existence spun in the webs of minds. Falling warmth stolen from cold, frozen walks to the hurry of time.
A red rose ignored but kissed by the buzzing of a bee. An ecosystem of many ribbed chasms. Happy mingling in the springing of eight hours passing. A light house at the edge, flourishing light casts upon stones.
Damp streets and spinning rubber. A thousand reasons to end, but the cycle keeps it going.
A morning to come,
A day to pass.
And an evening to sleep.
Thank you for reading!
What is your interpretation of what I created?
More poetic imagery can be found in, A Man's Traveled Heart
(Coming soon, The Bleeding of Words)
Popular posts from this blog
I have been writting poetry on medium, does anyone still wish me to write short stories on here?
A Summer Bird's Winter Perch I watch this lonely bird chirp upon a slopping branch. Its feet wrapped firmly around the thin finger of bark. As I watch, I commiserate its position. Sitting there, alone, singing with no others to listen. Speaking I assume, to itself. Maybe contemplating its unfortunate circumstance. For the rest had already left for the winter. If I am not mistaken it was only a few days ago that I watched a flurry of birds dart by. Their wings flapping against the brisk wind collectively. Not a single one appeared worried of their journey. Their shadows crawled quickly across the empty streets during a fall evening. I watched them pass by like a feather floating down stream. I couldn't help but wonder, how long must they fly? What winds must they fight, what elements must they battle against? All must be against them as is every moment in time is against us all? Yet they fly forth to the heat of earth. Dependent upon their survival but, what
The Taste of Love, Will It Ever Be Mine? When will I find my lips upon the sweet taste of love? Lost to its scent like the aromal smell of roses upon skin. Will there be an end, beneath an apple tree buried next to my other half? Or will I drown in the soiled pity of my heart as whiskey stains my veins? For I find the misery of myself to be a dull company, but yet its tingles with addiction. And I draw my eyes close to the empty halls of the damned. Screaming for peace but always find myself chocking on pride. Lost in a dense fog I created in the heat of breath upon my frozen heart. Distant am I, in the reaches of tears. For they have no existence in the forefront of my mind, nor heart. Some may call me hollow, lackluster in the dreams of my own thoughts. What is one without the acceptance of tears, without the bravery to step into the engagement of vows? How does one truly go beyond his own vicious habits if there lies no other to call them out? I hear my soul whispe