My best verses are composed, ironically,
when senses lay far away from me.
My verses are prophecies,
of the stones unturned;
of the things unheared;
and yet,
and yet!
I spoketh of the lands untouched.
of the trembles unfelt;
of the warmth never felt;
and the sand
of you and me;
the ashes of you and me
layeth beyond our reach.
Hence,
we must burn,
through this life to eternity.
3 comments:
i like this better than the im-a-drunk-hard one
listen vince
im tired and sleepy but i decided to take a last look at this poem and i like it. but look i gotta tell u sunthin really botherin me guy. enough with the oldeth english! it's so cliché- especially as it is generally misplaced. it just makes everything more korny than it means to be, and also gives it a sort of ignorant-superiority-complexe sorta read to it.
so drop it already.
I am glad you realized before going to bed.
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