Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Her Sighs Injured the Morn


Her thoughts flowing 
On the stone cold walls
Of her melancholic dreams

Her weary brain
Seems to care less about what seems
True or false

Terminologies are there 
Gambolling on her tongue
Dawdling within the doors of her lips
Anticipating in sudden sorrow
of what is to be found

Perchance it's in the barren devouring dusk
Covered behind thick bars of fear and misfortune
Falling, failing, missing the clasp of existence 

Maybe it is gone in the crater of her anger


Maybe things that are meant to be
Will find its way 
Like how the incubus smothers her All


In every cycle of the morn
Green grass gladly grows
Beautiful flowers blissfully bloom
But She...

She falls into pieces
Lays down her scars in silence,
And within her soundless screams
Is the flawless violence
That plays without end. 

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