In manila picture-frames,
Through the rose-colored glasses,
They'll pass our memory down.
An echo of a sound,
Still stares through the looking glass.
Of a kaleidoscopic heart.
Maybe they'll paint me in red,
Through the test of time,
Wonder how they'll interpret my errors, successes, and tries.
Braided like a pattern,
Through the storm of it all,
Written down on manila paper.
I am the moonlight,
Through all the eclipses,
Darkside of La Luna.
What type of parable will we become?
Through the oppressive rays of their scrutiny,
Will we be the seeds that fell on rough & rocky ground?
An echo of the past,
Still stares through the looking glass.
Of a kaleidoscopic heart.
They said, "There's a thousand sides to every story."
Yet through the heartbreak of it all,
How will they interpret me?
And maybe they'll paint me in gold, or blood-red crimson,
Through the testament of time,
Two roads, one less traveled.
Underneath the Giving tree,
Through the high of it all,
Passed down, like folksongs.
YOU ARE READING
amber daffodils (completed ✔️)
Poetry"i stood on the plutonium shores of the lake, where all the poets had went to die, the mountains bejeweled with snow. i saw nothing in the vast expanse, only the stars in a hazy trance, yet when the sun rose, and night came to a close, i saw marig...
