Monday, April 14, 2008


Lines of darkness enclose a space
of plain white squares and dark red spots
That we may see the shapes unseen
the flowers amidst the fields of rot

A song is sung, a perfect tune
That weaves the sorrow of the morning birds
That calls the heart of long-lost dreams
That heals the soul with unkind words

Hands reach out to strike the child
A warning felt by every nerve
The hand that heals may hurt as well
The hardened palm of a mother's love

The wind that chases the smoke away
Grants us the joy of cool fresh air
The fields of grass, filled with trees
shall renew the clouds for us to bear

The fish is plain without its salt
Come my friend, and do not weep
The smooth cracked wall may keep its faults
For the taste of life
Is bittersweet.


Warehouse poem. I'm running out now. Inspiration comes, but I usually don't have the time to write them. This one was somewhat incomplete, but I thought-Oh well! And decided to post it anyway.

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