In my wayward, dainty vision,
her mellifluous stature do I see,
looking up at the obsidian sky,
unaware of the love I feel for she;
while the wind caresses her tendrils,
oblivious to the role I would like to be:
while a tenebrious embrace,
is what I would like to feel with glee,
but soft, as in a moment of snipping haste,
there is the lifting of her fingers;
wherefore she points to the stars in distaste,
sighing in fashion, "he lingers,"
and so my gaze lifts with rapidity,
sinister emotions clashing and chiming,
for there stood my father in its' abyss,
looking down at me, weeping and crying.
YOU ARE READING
Poesy of Eloquence
Poetry❝ this tragedy is soaked with tears that dry the ink in my hands. ❞ ━ the poesy I've yearned to release ever since I taught myself to pick up the pen and write. ❝ for if the painting of my words be the garden upon the gate of heaven, glimpse them...
