Post by behindTHEmask on Dec 12, 2005 20:23:03 GMT -8
It seems my poems keep becoming lengthy, but I promise their's a point to this. I'm slightly curious if anyone will get my overall message, but we'll see.
A Second Turns To Sixty, and Sixty Turns To One.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence.
Stop to breathe and walk to catch your breath.
Lighter, lightly, light.
Footsteps mark the ending of the begging
she wrote as something, the story she entitled, My Reverie.
The light sounds slowly hasten
and time pushes without looking back,
constantly changing a second into sixty and sixty into one.
She blinks to slow the sand, falling, falling down,
further as the one turns to sixty and the sixty turns to one.
Pause, glance, quicken and she screams a vapor cloud
because the cold’s made her dumb with the voice of a toddler,
struggling to form an audible word
to express a feeling words suppress into vague.
Quickly, quicker, quickly, quick.
City noises ruffle her ears,
flinching at disaster
and grinning pleasure on the break of something different,
something antiquated to rebirth.
She stomps the snow into smoothen recovered lovers
who walked the snowflakes to the ground
and lay them to sleep a white casket
with a funeral elegant and pure.
Softly, softer, softly, slow
she sighs with a free verse line
about people and complaining –
about rich versus poor.
A giddy quip escapes her,
a poor man richened by me.
With a smile and a name
giving something more that one less source of oxygen.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence
the movement she’s entranced slowly blurs
into the deceased walking to their casket
to sleep a funeral of elegance so pure
with graffiti markings tainting the world the girl stood for.
Softer, softly, softer, slow
she whispers the end.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence
a second turns to sixty and sixty turns to one
and one turns to sixty whispering,
sixty will always be one.
A Second Turns To Sixty, and Sixty Turns To One.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence.
Stop to breathe and walk to catch your breath.
Lighter, lightly, light.
Footsteps mark the ending of the begging
she wrote as something, the story she entitled, My Reverie.
The light sounds slowly hasten
and time pushes without looking back,
constantly changing a second into sixty and sixty into one.
She blinks to slow the sand, falling, falling down,
further as the one turns to sixty and the sixty turns to one.
Pause, glance, quicken and she screams a vapor cloud
because the cold’s made her dumb with the voice of a toddler,
struggling to form an audible word
to express a feeling words suppress into vague.
Quickly, quicker, quickly, quick.
City noises ruffle her ears,
flinching at disaster
and grinning pleasure on the break of something different,
something antiquated to rebirth.
She stomps the snow into smoothen recovered lovers
who walked the snowflakes to the ground
and lay them to sleep a white casket
with a funeral elegant and pure.
Softly, softer, softly, slow
she sighs with a free verse line
about people and complaining –
about rich versus poor.
A giddy quip escapes her,
a poor man richened by me.
With a smile and a name
giving something more that one less source of oxygen.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence
the movement she’s entranced slowly blurs
into the deceased walking to their casket
to sleep a funeral of elegance so pure
with graffiti markings tainting the world the girl stood for.
Softer, softly, softer, slow
she whispers the end.
Lightly, lighter, lightly, silence
a second turns to sixty and sixty turns to one
and one turns to sixty whispering,
sixty will always be one.
