The muse hold my tongue
Contemplating the breath that escapes
Fervent in essence of me
Expelled deep from within
Coloured in reverent hues
Captured in bottled acquiescence
Capped in braids of gilded heart
All but nothing exists in one
Inscribed on parchment
Quilled of a feather drawn
Elaborate scratching versed in words
Prose for the seminal few
Held in coloured stone
Exhaled slowly with purpose
Tasted on moistened tongue
Rich in texture of fallacies invalidated
Freshened on the chill of air
Fogged in a smoke like essence
Fading ethereal in dream state
Recognition of the regretful few
Will be seen without futures
Mirrored in the soles of my shoes
Painted in remembrance on the walls
Few words are chosen
When words are spoken by so few
1 comment:
This is really harsh, in a good way - I mean the last stanza is so heavy...suffocating actually....matted with turmoil and also the feeling of no shine...incarcarated vision...no reflection...dull and throttling, amazing piece! This is the bones of the wreckage! xoxo
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