No pulse of philosophy ever played a lyre of love.
No prose of poetry ever pulsed the heart of a dove.
Literature's limp leaf, a bore to Nature's supple sycamore,
yet precious ores of Love be ignored by the world for ever more,
for pride wrought its rusted lore upon beauty's blossom ashore.
There, blossoms laid forgotten,
its dying embers wilt rotten-
Just as Love's broken-winged dove.
There wreathed Death's eldritch wrath, Nature's lush bough uttered its last breath,
grey skies of December enwreathed its soul upon the blossoms' breath,
its sore ghost of a dying flame drowning upon the blighting floor.
The once luscious land of Nature's lore perished on the cold floor,
yet our people thrived like before, before what we oh so adore,
adore the blooming wings that had long plucked themselves and fell on floors-
floors where Joy rot forgotten,
since Beauty broke forsaken,
for Blindness n'er forgotten.
YOU ARE READING
ꨄ 𝙻𝚒𝚏𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍 𝙳𝚎𝚊𝚝𝚑ꨄ
PoetryLife and Death; Joy and Sorrow. They're just two wings to the same body.
