Look at the sky,
what do you see?
You know, what I see?
The grey-black clouds clutter,
to mourn for the devotee.
They cry, cry and empty their eyes.
The dry thunders too regret the demise.
I wail like a banshee.
The moon chose to hide this night.
The winds shake with fright.
They wonder who the deceased might be.
Edges make a difference and so does the one I stand on.
The nox twists like a sick knot, nothing I planned on.
The world down below looks a blur to me.
There has to be an end but why like this?
Why is everything amiss?
Wish I had wings to fly and the courage to flee.
Each step I take rings an alarm in my mind,
like a warning bell to step behind.
That every warning sounds like a plea.
There's so much to lose and so less left.
All I have is a heart, bereft.
I swing on the edge, with a mind uncleft.
You wonder too who the dead might be.
It's me.
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Thoughts of a Juvenile
PoetryWords are sharper than knife they say. Yes it is true. Some perfectly moulded good words can both make and break a heart easily. A poem is a group of such perfectly moulded words given wings to fly. They fly through the mind and heart easily. A hob...
