THE SONG REMAINS
Sing a song of castles great baked in bitter sands.
Distant hearts made one through mystic nights.
Tell a tale of hard born pride melted in the heat of captive passions.
Dreamers dream of places long since abandoned; renewed in hope.
Whisper the words too fragile for common tongues and uncaring ears.
Cleft hearts made whole through secret longing and hurts fleetingly forgotten.
Pen a poem of amazed worship for beauty too stunning for prose.
Give of a soul knowing it cannot be accepted but rewarding the giver still.
Paint a portrait of warm brown eyes, snow soft skin framed in locks of jet raven.
Piercing smiles, longing
The Glimpse
A glimpse; a mental snapshot of something not quite clear.
An image not conscious to note, yet it lingers in the dark of the mind.
Brown soft carefree curls of radiant hair draped along the ivory nap of her neck.
Smooth silken seduction attained with a nonchalant turn of her head.
I never saw her eyes, too quickly turned as my own were drawn to her subtle lips.
Her lips forming a quiet demi smile. Reluctant, fleeting, naturally revealing.
Suggesting the timid confidence of a beautiful young woman.
A woman who has yet to taste the full vintage of life but senses its wonder.
Perhaps a glimpse is all I can recall, Beauty im
Siren Song
Soft torrents of love and pain stir within the beauty she is and will be.
Calling upon reserves of strength that one her age should have no need of.
Enduring the wounds of feverish jackals, disguising hate as love.
Feeling alone inside, mixed memories tormenting, won't set her free.
Fearing, loathing taking the next step, but knowing she must find courage.
In silence she bares her soul, giving of herself. Despite all, still caring.
Her songs, a twisted quilt of strength, suffering, beauty that needs bearing.
I feel guilty to derive solace from her words, but still her gems I seek to forage.
Tears she has shared, wisdom she
If Words
If words could be found to move the heavens, they would be insignificant applied to you.
If one person could bear the scorns and pains of another, I would gladly for you.
A face so radiant, new lace aglow from the summer's sun; softer than an angel's dream.
Brown eyes, young and alive, I wish to see what they see, even as they whisper sadness.
Strength from within, like bamboo swaying in the wind. Impotent support is all I offer.
When I call you beautiful it is slander, because I am unable to describe perfection.
Black velvet upon pale porcelain is a dream I cherish as if it were religion.
You flitter and float too delicate b
Perfection
Perfection what is this place?
A world big enough for two.
A land where the wind is as my lover's whisper.
A country where the sins of regret are but a forgotten footnote in its history.
A field where the sun warms the sea of lilies and tall soft unfettered grass.
A stage upon which all the mad streaming thoughts are composed in a symphony for one.
A room of quiet solitude where fantasy can breathe and become real if only in my mind.
A tranquil sea reflecting a brilliant sky upon deceptive glass disguising the torrent below.
Perfection never to be experienced, never to be obtained, never to be forgotten.
Han
It Lingers
Had he a face, twisted might it be.
Too many cry, lament, torture, hurt; For the world is broken.
Visions of dread through tear soaked eyes too blinded to see.
Offering his leprous hand as an ice filled permanent token.
His worm rotten robes transformed into a princely cape.
Thin blackened knives transfixed in a liar's smile.
Young lives blighted by too much pain; can't see he lies in wait.
Promises of peace on hollow breath comforting all the while.
Shrouding his victims in despair, he walks them away from all that is dear.
Friends, families, those who love are all brushed back from hope's care.
The lich holds their hea
The Cold Stone God
The climber begins alone.
Limits he has placed upon himself weigh upon each measured movement.
Pacing his ascent with but the goal of finishing alive.
His progress is steady; his mind confident.
Each hand hold firm; his grip tight and strong.
His preparations meticulous and studied.
He moves according to plan and that plan is sound.
He knows no fear of what lies ahead.
The mountain does not adhere to plans. It is what it has always been.
It worries not about the frailty of mortals.
Resolve, spite, caring are all alien to what it is to be forever.
The mountain will stand as it has for eons, unbending.
Pain tugs
THE SONG REMAINS
Sing a song of castles great baked in bitter sands.
Distant hearts made one through mystic nights.
Tell a tale of hard born pride melted in the heat of captive passions.
Dreamers dream of places long since abandoned; renewed in hope.
Whisper the words too fragile for common tongues and uncaring ears.
Cleft hearts made whole through secret longing and hurts fleetingly forgotten.
Pen a poem of amazed worship for beauty too stunning for prose.
Give of a soul knowing it cannot be accepted but rewarding the giver still.
Paint a portrait of warm brown eyes, snow soft skin framed in locks of jet raven.
Piercing smiles, longing
The Glimpse
A glimpse; a mental snapshot of something not quite clear.
An image not conscious to note, yet it lingers in the dark of the mind.
Brown soft carefree curls of radiant hair draped along the ivory nap of her neck.
Smooth silken seduction attained with a nonchalant turn of her head.
I never saw her eyes, too quickly turned as my own were drawn to her subtle lips.
Her lips forming a quiet demi smile. Reluctant, fleeting, naturally revealing.
Suggesting the timid confidence of a beautiful young woman.
A woman who has yet to taste the full vintage of life but senses its wonder.
Perhaps a glimpse is all I can recall, Beauty im
Siren Song
Soft torrents of love and pain stir within the beauty she is and will be.
Calling upon reserves of strength that one her age should have no need of.
Enduring the wounds of feverish jackals, disguising hate as love.
Feeling alone inside, mixed memories tormenting, won't set her free.
Fearing, loathing taking the next step, but knowing she must find courage.
In silence she bares her soul, giving of herself. Despite all, still caring.
Her songs, a twisted quilt of strength, suffering, beauty that needs bearing.
I feel guilty to derive solace from her words, but still her gems I seek to forage.
Tears she has shared, wisdom she
If Words
If words could be found to move the heavens, they would be insignificant applied to you.
If one person could bear the scorns and pains of another, I would gladly for you.
A face so radiant, new lace aglow from the summer's sun; softer than an angel's dream.
Brown eyes, young and alive, I wish to see what they see, even as they whisper sadness.
Strength from within, like bamboo swaying in the wind. Impotent support is all I offer.
When I call you beautiful it is slander, because I am unable to describe perfection.
Black velvet upon pale porcelain is a dream I cherish as if it were religion.
You flitter and float too delicate b
Perfection
Perfection what is this place?
A world big enough for two.
A land where the wind is as my lover's whisper.
A country where the sins of regret are but a forgotten footnote in its history.
A field where the sun warms the sea of lilies and tall soft unfettered grass.
A stage upon which all the mad streaming thoughts are composed in a symphony for one.
A room of quiet solitude where fantasy can breathe and become real if only in my mind.
A tranquil sea reflecting a brilliant sky upon deceptive glass disguising the torrent below.
Perfection never to be experienced, never to be obtained, never to be forgotten.
Han
It Lingers
Had he a face, twisted might it be.
Too many cry, lament, torture, hurt; For the world is broken.
Visions of dread through tear soaked eyes too blinded to see.
Offering his leprous hand as an ice filled permanent token.
His worm rotten robes transformed into a princely cape.
Thin blackened knives transfixed in a liar's smile.
Young lives blighted by too much pain; can't see he lies in wait.
Promises of peace on hollow breath comforting all the while.
Shrouding his victims in despair, he walks them away from all that is dear.
Friends, families, those who love are all brushed back from hope's care.
The lich holds their hea
The Cold Stone God
The climber begins alone.
Limits he has placed upon himself weigh upon each measured movement.
Pacing his ascent with but the goal of finishing alive.
His progress is steady; his mind confident.
Each hand hold firm; his grip tight and strong.
His preparations meticulous and studied.
He moves according to plan and that plan is sound.
He knows no fear of what lies ahead.
The mountain does not adhere to plans. It is what it has always been.
It worries not about the frailty of mortals.
Resolve, spite, caring are all alien to what it is to be forever.
The mountain will stand as it has for eons, unbending.
Pain tugs
Defense of beautiful Roses by oddityghosting, literature
Literature
Defense of beautiful Roses
The stones laid carefully,
Overlapping one another,
Sealed with sand and smaller rocks,
The green vines grow and climb the stones,
Their sides defended by sharp spines,
Thorns as long as your little finger,
Sharp as a knife's edge,
Tipped red, as if fingers had already been pricked,
A fair warning,
Do not cross those thorns,
Don't try to climb that wall,
Even of the beauty and temptation of the roses fend off destruction,
The wall will stand,
These defenses,
The stone wall piled so high,
The roses guarding it in flashes of red and white,
Like a blood spattered cloth,
Strong and vulnerable,
They stand together to shield what
It's like a bad dream,
a spiralling sensation,
forever downwards.
I feel sick,
I feel uncomfortable chills down my spine,
I want to leave.
Where can I go,
to get away from this frigid air?
Where can I go from this misery and despair?
Black stars in my vision become more frequent,
I'm light headed,
but my shoulders feel heavy.
I want to go home,
I want to be warm.
I want someone to hold my hand and tell me we're nearly home.
Tell me everything is going to be okay.
Why won't you tell me?
You won't hold my hand.
I'm not home yet and it's still so cold.
Just let me sleep a little,
so maybe I can dream a little,
eve
"I know you."
"No, I don't think you do."
"Yes I do, you're that girl who hates the rain."
"I don't hate the rain."
"I know that. You never did. However, you lied to yourself until you thought you did."
"How do you-"
"I saw it. You see I used to know you as the girl who loved the rain. You would stand in it, arms out stretched, twirling like a ballerina to no music. You used to embrace the clarity of the rain and love when it washed you clean. Then something changed. Your eyes became dull mirrors that reflected the horrors of the world and your smile became vacant. You did not wear your heart on your sleeve anymore,
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