The solitary moon without the deep,
Neither tides to rise, nor waves to ebb.
A stupor, beyond the sleep,
Neither a beguiled trance, nor a woven web
Of intricate fallacies and delicate betrayal
Of truthful lies and ingenuous portrayal.
The plucked rose without its thorns,
Neither petals to bloom, nor barbs to prick
A game of chess, devoid of pawns
A seedless fruit, a candle-less wick.
An endless, purposeless, mad existence,
Pray, don't keep your distance .
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شِعر#14 on 8 March 2017 Poetry, Prose. Words bled from the very soul. Musings of an occasional poetess. 'Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. It is an abstract art, and I am, but a mere artist ' - Edgar Allan Poe ©wordalmaniac 2016
