I write through the face of the light,
Blame my setbacks to the still burning stars,
I gift upon you the power of sight,
Only to blindly paint abysmal scars.
I speak through breathing earthquakes,
Tremors are my spoken words,
Among the rigged plains and soaring mountains,
I promise to deliver no ache.
Kingdoms of fluffy, white clouds,
One of my greatest sonnets,
Metaphors of dancing rain and bounds,
Of immortal dying and breathless aspects.
A circus of filtered beauty,
Oh, what a land of poor taste,
Masking the real face of reality's potency,
A culture of cut and paste.
Through all the roaring metal sticks,
An endless journey on a looping maze,
Now I wonder from burning heavenly bodies,
Are you worth the restless seven days.
YOU ARE READING
Moon Child | Ongoing
Poetry"Home isn't always four walls. Sometimes it's one warm embrace And two people's heartbeats as one. " - Moon Child (StarHues) Collection of poems mostly tackling about falling in love with someone out of your reach. Musings about the pain of unrequit...
