For what seems to be eternal,
I've traveled through life with a sigh.
That's deep, and prowling;
Silently invisible to others nearby.
But when my days began to brighten,
And kindling suns would slowly rise,
I knew the healing key;
Was the poetry written as the
Disconnected days slowly passed by.
With anger and vile
I filled a lonely book,
With beauty, dreams, thoughts,
Spilled ink of all sorts.
Each time until my palms shook.
Who ever knew
I could write such
Wickedly, beautiful, marvels of things?
So darkly deep
And seems to fly
Beyond the page.
As the feeling flowed from
The core of me,
Bouncing off the tip of my pen
I knew that deceitful grin
That sinned of treacherous lies
Was from the words that went
With the transparent sadness,
And solemn lullabys.
