The self contemplates,
Imagery of life,
A stained picture of spirit,
Whose edges embrace,
An emotion to the heart,
Ventures in the gardens lear.
When alone,
We find memory to define,
The state of everlasting present,
Candid lines of eternal past.
The ink of our lives,
Splayed forth as spring of human,
As demur ocean of earnest breath,
My name a mere second,
In the hour of existence,
Here for the fractured decades,
Displayed in the hands of quest,
To try to forgive the question,
Of amending the name of self.
Lord, lost many have I?
To the tears of agony and la ment,
Yet I must move onward,
I cannot forget the lessons of death,
In the palms of my family.
Head downward,
Cast eyes to floor,
The hope diminishes,
In the flame of an ode,
Which is the strongest silence,
The soul it is a stranger to the invite.
My Shepard,died could of I a thousandth of time-
Thus You have spared a poet so,
And I have cast my fist unto You,
A many time in the spirits misunderstanding.
Why was I created this way?
To endure in shadows trumpeting,
The sickened lore of what love is,
I do not believe here today,
I do not belong on the path,
Which starts at the end,
Then begins with not haste.
The loss incomplete,
As an abstract feather blown,
From the hand of a dreamer,
Who keeps her silence,
In the vigilance of redeeming,
All of quietude and requiem.
Watches the feather,
Blown by the fate of wind,
Never to be felt in the angelic from,
Of what once held truth,
Is the virtue of surreal pictures,
Which play like strange fiction,
In the garden where,
One sights natures disgrace,
In the disguise of what she sees not.
The self contemplates,
Imagery of life,
A stained picture of spirit,
Whose edges embrace,
An emotion to heart,
Ventures..........silently in self.