Terrains of rythm run throughout minds that allows,
Bellows and calls as words musically flows.
The accent of notes on a already inked paper,
Beauty of this art second to nature.
The cadence of words as they roll off the tongue,
Different tones of when and how it all begun.
The flow of a masterpiece filled with confidence,
The author of books, books of him in his natural element.
The measure of the times, the time of each note,
Notes of love and chaos tangled and sinking like a boat.
The metres measures the time of a muse,
Inspiration of what could be put to use.
The patterns of a flow always replicated,
Different times, different places something old reinvented.
The pulse of the emotional input beats feverishly,
The need of relatable words ever so longingly.
The stress of the thoughts overloading the brain,
These ones and zeros would easily break the mainframe.
The limited time of creations that might one day be forgotten,
Creations of rythms in these terrains of my veins most uncommon.
~Alis Grace.
YOU ARE READING
ALIS GRACE
PoetryTHE CONFUSION OF A PERSON, OF A THING; A NEW IDENTITY, A NEW LIFE OF WHAT IS THERE TO BRING, THE STORY OF A PERSON WHO HAS LOST EVERYTHING, A NEW DRAMA PEICE IN THIS WORLD OF SIN. QUEUES OR LINES, FEAR AND LOVE WHAT IS TO BE EXPECTED IN THIS BOOK VI...
