Physically, inspirational.
Metaphysically, equally so.
Whenever lost in absence of muse,
we wander wherever it points to go.
Does the fear of the dark
stem from the horrors that hide behind?
Or simply the possibility
of the hell that we must grind?
Yet what if instead
as fear of isolation?
From the visible world;
from the spotlight of creation?
In all it is witnessed,
giving loved the life to think.
Transcendence is as analysis claims
to flow from candles and ink.
YOU ARE READING
Dead Orchestras
PoetryA random assortment of poems with no particular running theme or plot. This will serve as the hub for most of my stand-alone poetry.
