Post by contention on Dec 3, 2005 12:20:12 GMT -5
Theres not much I wish to go over on this peace, or say where it comes from or why I wrote it. I did this in Free Verse, and it will probaly be my last. Nothing rhymes at all, but every line is only ten syllables long. You don't have to review or reply or even read. It's merely, in my own opinion just anger and far from anything that I like.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Doth thou think of me, in senile ways?
Whereupon my towers have yet to rise,
To far apart from your gentile sands.
Are thy plains to bare for your own conscience;
When many a foot shall walk across your own.
Does thy own sun not glimmer to your liking;
Art thoust lands, sculpted in His own hand?
Is your word, as true as the pipe of Pan?
So I relished, until such came to see,
The cape of night, upon its evening stride.
For such it came, to smother what was real;
To turn your petals, to make them but shift,
And lower the tide, which strung our hands to hand.
T’was when the sound of thoust own harp doth died;
To mute all senses that you could arouse.
Shadows had fallen; they were such no more,
Yet, raped the cloud of their brother upon us.
Your grass did turn, from lime to but black;
Thy own hath fallen from green to greener,
And dew they did, to not guide a flame.
You are the lion, and I am but the cub;
Yet came the pillow of all exhaustion.
So in me your teeth hath unto me sprung,
To grim the smile across both lips,
As one may pass and the other live.
Love is but the day, and you have brought the night;
Never shall I sleep while your eyes may droop.
So into your dreams, you can come to prance;
While I shall suckle on what’s left of land,
And come to never toll the bell of morn.
Awaken ye, but your ears have gone deaf;
Rise, why won’t you prove father time so wrong?
I shall stand until these feet cannot stand,
If but to clap in your dreams own plan;
To give what I can, in thine own slumber.
----------------------------------------------------------------
Doth thou think of me, in senile ways?
Whereupon my towers have yet to rise,
To far apart from your gentile sands.
Are thy plains to bare for your own conscience;
When many a foot shall walk across your own.
Does thy own sun not glimmer to your liking;
Art thoust lands, sculpted in His own hand?
Is your word, as true as the pipe of Pan?
So I relished, until such came to see,
The cape of night, upon its evening stride.
For such it came, to smother what was real;
To turn your petals, to make them but shift,
And lower the tide, which strung our hands to hand.
T’was when the sound of thoust own harp doth died;
To mute all senses that you could arouse.
Shadows had fallen; they were such no more,
Yet, raped the cloud of their brother upon us.
Your grass did turn, from lime to but black;
Thy own hath fallen from green to greener,
And dew they did, to not guide a flame.
You are the lion, and I am but the cub;
Yet came the pillow of all exhaustion.
So in me your teeth hath unto me sprung,
To grim the smile across both lips,
As one may pass and the other live.
Love is but the day, and you have brought the night;
Never shall I sleep while your eyes may droop.
So into your dreams, you can come to prance;
While I shall suckle on what’s left of land,
And come to never toll the bell of morn.
Awaken ye, but your ears have gone deaf;
Rise, why won’t you prove father time so wrong?
I shall stand until these feet cannot stand,
If but to clap in your dreams own plan;
To give what I can, in thine own slumber.