The world goes about faithfully trusting the paper thin reality.
With forced love and benevolence masking it's brutality.
While love remains and eternal holiness prevails,
Our love's corrupt with the spirit of the flesh, and lust unveils.
If one blooms as a flower of white amid the crimson thorns,
His love's a curse to himself, chaining him amidst his hysterical moans.
His empathy's a whip that'll lash him when he slumbers.
He'll remain to her just another one of the multitude's members.
The white orchid shall start to be tainted black with doubt
Wondering if being loved was a boon given to the high of the lot?
Still in want of warm tender love to shoo the gloom away.
Finally... the thorns shall be cursed to go black by the orchid grey.
Neither black nor white the flower stopped to bloom...
Not that anyone stopped to notice its self inflicted doom.
YOU ARE READING
My horizon's view
PoetryMy collection of poems, I started writing poetry and fell in love with it. I intend to write philosophical poems but I may stumble or stray, so kindly bear with my insanity. Thank you for your time. Feel free to give me opinions, advices and I'm alw...
