The canvas sleeps within my soul
rises by the fingertips possessed of ghosts.
Cassanova's spirit dipping words in his well,
Jack the Ripper's phantom smudging them
by his own bloodied hues of demon calligraphy.
Two hands obedient to different quills
dripping droplets blazing with fire,
to either slay the heart or caress,
the mind a witness to the resurrected forces
hoping they paint clouds, fearing when they write hell.
A contest entry
- "This statement is a lie." by PatheticKt.
300 points, ended September 30, 2008, 17 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest - Invite only by PatheticKt.
300 points, ended October 18, 2008, 3 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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Wow, a wonderufl metaphorical piece. I almost didn't get it, just almost
Love the metaphors, all right. I guess, we have something evil inside us, we don't control what we do subconsciously and we fear the mistakes of ours that will soon come. I really like how you penned a somewhat simple situation in beauty ~
Greatly penned, definitely was glad to read this
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This is beyond excellent! Good luck in the contest!
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