Post by ashesbyraevyn on Sept 4, 2006 14:07:52 GMT 1
Yellow Bird -
Yellow bird,
brother of viridity,
and the breast of my lies,
lying on the dew of brittle bark.
Carry your bones to my nesting ground.
wake me from this slumber
of the sensitives.
Mark me,
golden thorn,
sing to my eyelids womb.
Wayward Breeds -
Cobblestone, planted on the material street.
Where women stood about, once,
Torn cotton hems and such.
Recollections and ethics,
are but gone,
like the leaves of autumn flickering away to tender dust,
In the palms of your hands,
cast away so indifferently by the pull of the new.
Nature coloured notes,
wasted on the nothingness of modern possessions.
A decade of facades begun.
We still yearn.
Frances -
Oh, the bitter tea,
Sweet of tongue and fragrance,
filling the span of my sights and yeilded.
The devil has a remark, I see,
her patterns misconstrue,
though she sees all through a french hourglass.
The childs mind sits in preparation,
for the untruth.
Bind her fragility,
With Silk lies, carry her womb with grace.
She is grace.
Pearl -
Poverty has encaptured her,
this pearl of age.
From the meager lengths of my iris,
I see her skin is a wave,
thunderous, unapologetic.
Her decades have swept her to a renounced shore,
where the heart on her pocket watch, ticks slowly to reach
her instruments of sound.
She carries only illustrations now,
until the ice crystals are glued and her god peers through her eyelids, a moment belonging to her.
Yellow bird,
brother of viridity,
and the breast of my lies,
lying on the dew of brittle bark.
Carry your bones to my nesting ground.
wake me from this slumber
of the sensitives.
Mark me,
golden thorn,
sing to my eyelids womb.
Wayward Breeds -
Cobblestone, planted on the material street.
Where women stood about, once,
Torn cotton hems and such.
Recollections and ethics,
are but gone,
like the leaves of autumn flickering away to tender dust,
In the palms of your hands,
cast away so indifferently by the pull of the new.
Nature coloured notes,
wasted on the nothingness of modern possessions.
A decade of facades begun.
We still yearn.
Frances -
Oh, the bitter tea,
Sweet of tongue and fragrance,
filling the span of my sights and yeilded.
The devil has a remark, I see,
her patterns misconstrue,
though she sees all through a french hourglass.
The childs mind sits in preparation,
for the untruth.
Bind her fragility,
With Silk lies, carry her womb with grace.
She is grace.
Pearl -
Poverty has encaptured her,
this pearl of age.
From the meager lengths of my iris,
I see her skin is a wave,
thunderous, unapologetic.
Her decades have swept her to a renounced shore,
where the heart on her pocket watch, ticks slowly to reach
her instruments of sound.
She carries only illustrations now,
until the ice crystals are glued and her god peers through her eyelids, a moment belonging to her.
