It ignites in a crimson heartbeat
but struggles out the depth of me.
Once used, the oozing vein is cut
And spits a bluish elegy.
Its nothing but a witch light,
A speck in a tenebrous sorrow.
Its a parasite in the minds of those
Who err where I cannot follow.
Its a bowl of dirt where the fruit rots,
Its a canvas heavy with stains.
Its the foot-note of life, attending no fate
But the cradle of its own remains.














Comments
--
It is an act of imagination to live differently from everyone else.
I nined a elevenderloin with my fivek!" - Victor Borge
Poetry is a deal of joy and pain and wonder, with a dash of the dictionary. ~ Kahlil Gibran
--
Love that surpasses all living things can only belong to one...God.
amazing poem
--
I go to seek a great perhaps
--
"God, we're off the rails,
now they drag me off in pieces." - elle-sophicles
[link]
"I will make pilgrims of my fingers,"
- ScarlettLetters :iconscarlettletters:
--
Holding me with silent words
As we slip between worlds
I feel you pressed against me
Heat and desire
All things that keep me alive
All the worlds fall apart
And I fall with you
--
Good thing that there is art and literature. It's not giving me hope for the future, but at least it takes my mind away from the hate-infested heap of mindless meatbags that is commonly known as the world's population.
--
"Sometimes we writers take hours finding exactly the right word" -Snoopy
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