The ethereal shores
and greening meadows
Are sepulchered in the seeds
of the stagnant beauty.
While the lustful beasts
of Greed and Sorrow,
Are free from war,
and ship-freighted sea.
For the Moon,
I live for the deathless poetry,
For the Sun,
I live for pursuit of love
and happiness.
But as I travel through the curves
to approach their call,
They are all pleading
for the teeming burden
to let them go.
Crying corpses are piled
by the leaping humanity,
Scattered wraiths,
all slinked and crying.
We are haunted
by the endless murk of society,
Disputing the perfection
and art of living.
But the sun is setting, friends. . .
YOU ARE READING
| october.
PoetryHow can I let your voice slump into oblivion if it resembles the sound of the rustling leaves?
