Black letters drip onto the parchment page Inked with my soul and written in my blood Traced with fingers into the granite walls Of my stone-castle heart. I’m crying in the rain and my tears are ebony drops Falling into the verses lying at my feet, waiting hoping, that one day I’ll mold them into something immortal. My lips are glossed with salted tears and your kiss; Press them into the veins of the blank page They run in rivers through the arteries and wrap in vines Around the brittle bones of characters still unknown. Words are stones upon which dreams are built And torn down. Turn the page now, another chapter unfolds before your eyes Landscapes appear and a character draws his first breath. Molding his life in my hands, I touch his heart so it will be golden. Each story is a masterpiece; and though I someday will fall And be lost from this earth… my words will live on. To be a poet is to be immortal. |
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Comments
It has a beautiful meaning!
I really think your words will live on.
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Does your clock control your life?
Your words make my heart sing, darling.
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I am a poet, but sometimes words fail me.
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oblivion awaits...
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I am a poet, but sometimes words fail me.
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" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
Thank you so much for your faithful commenting, I really appreciate it.
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I am a poet, but sometimes words fail me.
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" ...he's more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Linton's is as different as a moonbeam from lightning, or frost from fire."
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She said that it’s we who are rushing passed the wind
and that the sky is really below our feet
{ makes it easier to reach for the stars I guess }
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I am a poet, but sometimes words fail me.
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