Written by Always looking for grandiosity, although to be fair enough cutting down on it! Still learning and still aspiring; still grappling with the myriad devices of literature. I started to actively pursue writing from the age of 15 onwards; while an interest in poetry itself would not arrive till the age of 17. From then on, Milton and Eliot would run rings of inspiration around me. I write well with music; for some reason the dynamics of music help me better express myself. To be fair, I do not quite tread the same path as most; that is I do not write frequently enough to be labeled a writer. Perhaps though, that is not upto me! My writings tend to sometimes take on a far more overbearing burden, they tend to be not about the blasé intimacies of every life and relationships, but instead about the grander scale of things. In my defense, I have tried to correct that, but I suppose a distinct lack of empathy on my part may provide considerable hindrance. Ultimately though, I write in prose and poetry what I cannot say aloud. Isn’t that just all of us? Read more by this writer |
The Binding LightThen let us dive, deep Into the arms of an ocean in slumber, Deprived and derailed, marked in numbers, As the bells chime and the waves splash, To mark a dire occasion and a dash
The winds circle above and howl, As the hearse goes round and round, Worshipping this sullen ground, Stuck in a quagmire and within a stone They come and go, singing hymns and weeping more
The casket lies, six feet under Our lives entwined, Our deaths bind, A life austere, to welcome crows, And their immortal noise
Then let us walk, through this hallowed ground, The streets of stone with lampposts of bones, Of men leaning against and whispering, Of women sitting and silently pointing
And let us stalk the minds of the many dead, As the walls collapse to compound our dread, And to hear Lazarus, to speak and to hear, To hear him say “this is your time”
Emaciated fingers tap, On the walls and the wood, Forsaken and tiresome, Welcoming us with their pity, Frightening and frigid, With the smell of rank blood, And stale bread and crud, To feign interest and lust, Through mangled disease and dust
And I’ve counted my lives on my fingers, And slinked across the bottomless seas, To discover and err; as souls Are tainted and selfishly lost
To weave through the forests and to climb the ancient peaks
To an end so lonely and inherently meek. |
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