Tuesday, March 18, 2014

Story of Old

Shimmering amber gems
Not well acquainted with the valleys
Through soft petals of velvet
Awakening primitive dreams
She believes, she daftly believes
That something old and crooked
Can align, wherefore, to something true

Those shallow eyes lack a seasoned soul
In the sunrise, her ideals are conjured
To dance to a farce of a life
Despite the monsters of the dark
Monsters of ravaged wisdom that tear
At her dreams all day
She stops, she hopes, she listens
Tracing archaic paths of yore
That failed novices before her evermore

Eyes full of sage weigh upon her, disappointed
Lost in surreptitious mirages only a novice would believe
A voice she hears only selectively, on the whim of a wind
For its warnings and admonishing are much too bitter to bear
She has traveled at the end of the string
And the days of warm familiarity are suddenly over;
A brash and whipping chill surrounds her soul
There is no path over the cliff
There are no signs, no omens, or advice in the abyss..

Shimmering amber gems they once were
Spilling over with enlightenment and passion
In its place, now: dark and brooding stones
Weighing heavy on her face, mourning misguided steps of the past
The storm carries on without respite
No sunlight to beckon, no night to cease fire
Yet the story of old forever plays, proven and tired.


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