our monuments are nought but earth and shit and blood that only scar the world moreover where no sore ever should, and I see not ruined stones nor former glory with blinded awe but the broken souls of mankind shamed sealed within their cores.
these lines betray ceremony a composition’s liturgy which determines if these words are ever to be heard or if the page in time will burn discarded but should they form the poetry of those emotions known to me then the rite of how I write will find its rhyme and remain unto the world regarded.
he held this tenuous truth too long
so long that its corpse decayed
the delicate veins which held it together
shattered, then became dust
which ran as sand through his fingers
and then was lost as lies forever.
they made love to the sound of trains and raindrops of imagination came together to become one upon the restless window panes which travelled silently in tune to the passions in their room and breathed as one as did their sighs lost to trains of thoughts gone by.
first this glowing whitest rose held my eyes in wonderment and that it was not just a dream a light play of the firmament somehow gave it power to me in more than just its purity that it had chosen me to see its face revealed in ecstasy