when last i died,
my words ran cold
like droplets left
on winter glass,
streaking past
the foggy pages,
failing still
to stay or last
(i haven't heard my voice in years)
such soft resolve,
with steps like whispered death,
trailing hallways with cool aplomb,
meant to capture everyone
in broken net,
fisher of men
and catcher of none
(silence keeps us free from tears)
i saved no life
at any time,
not even mine,
but always thought
my words would be
a way to reach the gods
(but gods have little use for words)
this could be
sad testament
to what was me
when i was not
able to see
beyond my own demise
(gods loathe those who fall on swords)
who is to say
that it will always be this way,
struggling against my own restraint,
afraid to reach beyond the quaint
and comfortable night
into the garish,
insufferable light
that occupies the day?
(such things are not ours to decide)
i will write on,
though fantastic visions
are long since gone,
for somewhere still they must reside
not so much dead
but meant to hide
until such time as i awaken
and stretch my wings again
(such wings were mine when last i died).
What did you think
Comments
-
I can relate, too well i think.
excellent... nice to read you again,
~ wendy -
brilliant as always- my only suggestion being, I really feel like you could drop the lines
able to see
beyond my own demise
and still have a really really strong stanza.
"This could be
sad testament
to what I was
when I was not."
::shrugs:: I don't know, I find it striking.
bravo.
-
I read somewhere that "god punishes us for the things we can't imagine".
That works here.
Neither am I done.
I'll be back.
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