Softly, quietly
Smoothly flowing inside.
Softly, softly
Quietly flowing ever.
Fragrant warm shadows
That call throughout the night,
In serene even tones
And redundant compulsion.
Ever so smoothly in even means,
In quiet lanes and lilac fancies,
And hushed violet strengths
To flow forever so smoothly
Into the darkness.
The river at night,
The quiet babbling brook.
The place not to be
In the middle of the darkness.
The closeness of death
And the quiet soft brook.
The smooth even rock
In the primordial forest.
Oh how we hope
There are not, there are no...
There are
High-flying screams
Of lurching pterodactyls
Flying in the gathering night.
In the graying dusk
Their terrified screams
And petrified trees
That stands on bleak edges
And wait for the life
That waits for the death of the night.
Black evil strength
That forces from them
And terrifies the night.
The smooth even flow
Of the ancient pterodactyls.
With wings
Whishing horribly in even tones
In quiet ravines,
In primordial forests
That are marshy and green.
By soft tinkling streams,
Waiting for the blackness of their cry
And waiting throughout the night.
We wait by soft tinkling streams
In ever-lush forests
And hear not
The cries in the night.
YOU ARE READING
We Lack a Word
PoetryA COLLECTION OF RHYTHMIC PROSE AND POETRY "The reader forms an attachment to the author/narrator as the parts meld into a story. The majority of the work is one - to two-page vignettes that create almost a novel in verse... Absorbing, an other...
