~•~
Mid morning she sees the sun ahead,
Her death flowed in a messaged bottle.
Gazing into her brown eyes upon all open sores,
Her conscious dark and grey, a never-ending war!
A giant cyclone of a thousand thought swirled around this little girl.
Inflicting away the pain, through the comfort of others pain,
The way she twisted and twisted life's perception was out of her control,
Inside she knew the glass slipper was never hers to show off.
She is baring nothing but a tainted pen,walking through eternity's sand,
A prosecutor of misdeeds, acompolishing what, without knowing the way,
Departing from her fractured self,she begins to slip into a righteous form,
Twirling her twilight's pen like a baton,
Spinning it to one final stand.
She awakens in a dream,where her sadness does not allow the light to reform,
Her body is weak and pale against the birth of her undying sun,
Staring down into the deepness of every-bodies abyss,
Aside all souls is where she felt lighter,than the retarded sun gives,
A crimson sky follows her just to reveal her diminished soul,
As of shunning out the city glow will always dwell deep inside her,
Sleeping under the society as one,insulting the taste of innocent blood,
Forgetting the vengeance, in a dimension where the pen is mightier than the sword.
How did she let it come to this?
In one feeling she fell in love with the spirit of the living rhyme,
Watching from a cave,with a diabolical look,
Refusing to grasp the self-nature,
And kill off the destroyers will.
A price beyond this enigmatic world,
Craving to be just like them,
Condemning her meaning to a blasphemy of white butterflies,
Destroying her poetic meaning that was destined to dance a tangle of endless rage,
In love with the essence of her deceased will,
She clings on to the dimness and brilliance at the same time,
All corpses lost beyond the girl in question,
Sympathic is a bizzare language,she mutters out sweetness,
Her heart mended,recognizing all adoration and poetic condition,
Exchanging the real terror,fixated by the life force of her poetic destruction,
Giving birth to a new revelation,
Now she will never deceive her love for the making of true art,
Not wanting to be in this wretched world with her destroying criteria,
Her soul sails, looking for a new era where love will no longer generate,
As she loathes the love and decides not to destroy,
This generation with hate.
At last,longing this one day with the angel of death,
With a closing teardrop, one last thought,
" My death will not be the end;
Only the ascension."
~•~
YOU ARE READING
Serenade✔
Poetry"To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. " ~Oscar Wilde __________________________________ ✔You stay under the carpet of my room, Dusting the corners of my soul✔ __________________________________...
