in the wind
the voices sing
a faint song of joy
but the whisper of another
is not of a faking toy
hear me loud
in my hushed little voice
theres something more there
listens silently and carefully
and take it with hearty care
the song it ends
with a soft voice left to solo
yet soon it does goes mute
listen, listen, perhaps you'll hear
what life has brought to fear
-silence-
the riddles
- unexplained, an object, thought or someone perhaps which has yet to obtain a justified description. bliss, for one to be lost in a world of sheer ecstasy with no intentions of return. picturesque, a graphic projection of a perfect moment so crisp with adorning sets and characters. flight, to be upon wings, either imagined or truelly attached, and elevated above the earth while able to move any direction desired. swept away, for one to be literally taken away from ones previous position by either choice or force. love, is there a true description of this one word which by so many means commitment, the end and yet there is joy, bountiful amounts of it, unrelenting passion truelly. end, the beginning of the conclusion - to finally cease for perhaps the time being or forever. future, what is ahead of one in their life - the time they cannot live nor question as it comes with every second and yet again it is only the present -
the cries
. . frore zypher careens through crystal adorned spools, augment ventiducts avariciously inspiring the rich, savory redolence. ageless in the vast realm of childish bliss she was, so overjoyed beneath the sweeping crystal tears. pharynx activates, a dulcet aria cantillated o'er moist muscle. palpating landua ceases with the final hymn manumit from the girlishly tuned vocals, slender culmination then precipitated towards the heavens themselves. for a moment, she stares; transfixed upon the grand welkin above and she, minute to its extensive spread, wondering. oh, the past, how it seemed like yesterday the male came upon her. she sighs, amplified caverns expelling a heavy rush o' carbon as focus then adverts to the aggervated brush. again, the angel cries, a whispered intonation for her lover and he only. bantam crescents gingerly descend athwart the parquet, grained lithograph rapidly sinking beneath the genuinely light pressure. atlast, arrival, and yet where does the beast himself roam . .
my romeo, where is it that you hide. i am not whole with you gone, put me, i plead, back together before i shatter as i cannot go on without you
|
Feedback: 