Memories of death's embrace visit me quite often under stared sky in moonlit darkness. With quiet ambition I hold all quarrels. With tempered hope I pray slowly. With fastened pace I brace for the pain of loss not to happen yet but to come in what may be distant but may also be close: never knowing my time yet to come or time of those nearest to me. Yet as enraged sadness overtakes me, I hold my breath silent, however the whistles of bladed grass and humored bark laugh in ecstasy over my cowardice. If the fated beauty knew of what I agonize over, would it be sympathy or distain, that I am met with in response? Toiling over such a meaningless question. Such is the fate of a fool. Such is the death of my honor.
YOU ARE READING
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
PoetryConfessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
