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Literature Text
-Reflection of Solace-
I lost myself in the prose of an empty storm, as my shadow assumed unfamiliar shapes on the cracked walls surrounding me. Golden thorns stretched out from the darkness as if driven by an insatiable hunger. I was unaware of their breath as they became one with my black living image, cast by the light of a solitary dying candle.
The impassionate beauty of words threatened to entreat my soul as I felt loving and deadly arms wrap around me. Your voice burned with deceit and licked at my heart like cold fire, and I heard the Windflower cry in the onset of apathy.
Through the ageless empty window, the feigned decadence of a falling star shone with the irrepressible intent of widows' self-destructive despair, its solitary tear staining graves of those long passed. Your tender arms encircled me; my eyes closed while a curtain of dark feelings gently descened upon me. I could taste lies in your touch, but only after love's defiance had been confirmed with hidden truth unwittingly revealed.
Who is this suicidal used one, victim of amusement's pleasure? A face painted against providence, concealed with such imminent liquid memories as to make all but one understand.
In desperation I tried to find the strength to return a contrived embrace, but failure saw my expression go blank.
I questioned the torn verses before me; photographs rarely catch the unhappy times.
-Adam Morsa 3:00 PM 9/17/03
I lost myself in the prose of an empty storm, as my shadow assumed unfamiliar shapes on the cracked walls surrounding me. Golden thorns stretched out from the darkness as if driven by an insatiable hunger. I was unaware of their breath as they became one with my black living image, cast by the light of a solitary dying candle.
The impassionate beauty of words threatened to entreat my soul as I felt loving and deadly arms wrap around me. Your voice burned with deceit and licked at my heart like cold fire, and I heard the Windflower cry in the onset of apathy.
Through the ageless empty window, the feigned decadence of a falling star shone with the irrepressible intent of widows' self-destructive despair, its solitary tear staining graves of those long passed. Your tender arms encircled me; my eyes closed while a curtain of dark feelings gently descened upon me. I could taste lies in your touch, but only after love's defiance had been confirmed with hidden truth unwittingly revealed.
Who is this suicidal used one, victim of amusement's pleasure? A face painted against providence, concealed with such imminent liquid memories as to make all but one understand.
In desperation I tried to find the strength to return a contrived embrace, but failure saw my expression go blank.
I questioned the torn verses before me; photographs rarely catch the unhappy times.
-Adam Morsa 3:00 PM 9/17/03
Literature
NighTale
NighTale
Written on Sunday, January 4th 2015
As Night lovingly embraced Sky, her lover
And brought him down to her bosoms
Man sheltered themselves and fell still;
Not even their breathing was heard
While Stars danced above, lustful
Seducing before the lone, aroused Moon
Without Sun acknowledging their betrayal
Without Horizon witnessing their caresses
Then what story did mankind hold?
Too afraid to step into Darkness' domain
Too frail to bear the cold Frostbite;
Just hiding under the shade of blankets, shivering
That no soul under the Heaven said a word
That no tavern sang songs of the old
For there be only Silence, her and only ex
Literature
Brighter Tomorrows
Some nights I sit in bed and stare at my palms.
I marvel for the briefest of seconds at the lines that seem endless. I wonder if they really depict my life or even tell a story. I wiggle my fingers, sometimes as if I play the piano and other times just a twitch. Then I curl my fingers into my palm slowly, always slowly. My hand squeezes into a fist. I hold it tightly and I stare, feeling the pressure and my nails digging in. I withdraw and meticulously uncurl my fingers until my hand is as straight as possible, fingers as far apart as they can be. I release the tension and they fall back to the natural curl. I then notice the imprint
Literature
Easier
It's easier to run
It's easier to hide
It's easier to find myself
When I'm on the other side
It's easier to ignore
It's easier to lie
Some even seem to think
That it's easier to die
We could be and would be
Someone simply great
But..
It's easier to run
It's easier to hide
It's easier to find myself
When I'm on the other side
Can't face this reality
Wish it was nothing but a dream
Can't face even the best of friends
It's just not as it seems
It's not that easy in my head
Why can't they understand?
(Can't make them understand because)
It's easier to run
It's easier to hide
It's easier to find myself
When I'm on the othe
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Sometimes I find it really hard to resist explaining these.
Everything means something, of course. Metaphors and symbolism abound... hope you don't mind the roundabout nature of it.
Oh, a note about these things- I may have mentioned it before, but generally, when I write in this "style," when I finish I have no intention of revision. With this, as with my other pieces of this fashion, if I were to change a thing the intense personal meaning of it, to me, that is, would be destroyed.
ANYWAYS, I was "inspired" for this one by recent events. Enjoy?
Everything means something, of course. Metaphors and symbolism abound... hope you don't mind the roundabout nature of it.
Oh, a note about these things- I may have mentioned it before, but generally, when I write in this "style," when I finish I have no intention of revision. With this, as with my other pieces of this fashion, if I were to change a thing the intense personal meaning of it, to me, that is, would be destroyed.
ANYWAYS, I was "inspired" for this one by recent events. Enjoy? © 2003 - 2024 seekingtruth
Comments15
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seriously you should publish a poetry book
i'd buy it...
maybe DA could help out with that
this is a great poem as always
i'd buy it...
maybe DA could help out with that
this is a great poem as always