Upon the rustic walls,
Laid a shadow, shadow too dry.
In the trees beyond, laid the carnelian of fall;
And I stroll away, into the vestige foliage ply.
In my little cabin,
many boring days had flown by,
but it was a conquest gladden;
for I shall accompany Mother Nature up among dancing ryes.
Spread across, a roseate sweet smell;
stood I amongst boughs and vined ringlets twined.
And there flew a tender breeze that whispered yells,
the two-faced blustery-zephyred whine.
On the soled verdure of the autumn leaflets,
were the outlandish disc-caps of the stem,
and o'er these mushrooms, laid the hived-nests,
amidst the chirps of crickets unkempt.
Little petaled wings that fly,
lead to the cascades of the stream,
the godly water that ripples, like tiny pulse beats sly;
of the meagre rill that flows for the boundless sea.
Rhinestones of the velvet sky,
shine ever so brightly,
but, oh!- in the sky, the hazy gloam lies,
Will my cindered flame guide me back, so untimely?
The wind ruffles the autumnal forest floor;
sending jitters down my spine;
for in this land where dark galored,
Neither the waned moon nor the canopied stars shine.
A gust of cool breeze flew by,
and I shivered off cold,
but a gift of second sight was it, perhaps,
For I could only fathom occult lores told.
Amidst the blinding darkness that lay,
there were distinct ruffles of the stream,
the godly water that rippled, faint amongst my pulse beats;
the meagre rill that flows, for the boundless sea.
YOU ARE READING
Poetry
PoetryPoetry is not just a bunch of words that rhyme. It's a beautifully woven fabric of metaphors and words, imagination and contemplation. And when you read a poet's work, you do not just read mere words. You read hidden stories, a reflection of yoursel...
