The pages were tainted,
It was their battlefield,
The blood was dripping out of the pen,
The tears awoke the slumbering lion in the den.
Wrote a line
like the wildfire,
Scattering upon all the desire.
There laid a gothic typewriter,
Beautiful than the wings of the Nightingale,
It was not in use
and Henceforth covered with muse,
Just like the muse on the dead poet's concerns
Which were once the tears
rain-showered upon the papers of the enchanted.
The concern birthed a pile of poems,
If they were a Moon,
They would be full and blue.
If they were an Ocean,
They would be deep and crude.
If they were a forest,
They would be too magical to see.
They weren't Selenophile,
They were the Selene reincarnated.
They weren't just poems,
They were the spells which brought the quiet alive,
Until the last flame burns,
The dead poets would continue writing their concerns.
YOU ARE READING
Ocean of words
PoetryThese are the ocean of words, I can't talk them out or hide, I wanna shout them to the world, But my courage is long gone in the tides...
