Midnight creeps upon his silence, he sits, spilling words through a pen onto a page, ink spreading, speaking only the sweetest words of embracing his love once again.
Moonlight creeps into his heart, his whole life spent, a priceless cost, matters not to him.
The cost, a mere illusion to the love she held for him. Her skin, firm but soft, her stone heart, tender to his touch. He dreams of her, and her alone, dancing through time, closer with each step.
The fire burned and the ink flowed still from his pen, whisper to her the breath of life, fill her with the words she so desperately needed.
Watch her move, this place is hers. here now you are hers. Render captive for to her he will fall, as many times before.
He writes now to speak, whats not been said, whats not been heard, the secrets that turned the circles deep within his heart, across the page, for her eyes to see.
Night is her time, what her passion feeds upon, what he feeds upon, her passion.
Keep spilling you're words, continue her story, let the pen in your hand flourish love in her heart. Let the words you say bring her smile to life.
Dawn slips through the cracks of night, her story's end is eminent. Here now the decision comes, life or death, lie within his hands. Worlds at end, the colliding of souls, a small choice, universal to her heart.
Choose wisely, for you hold her fate within you own hands, the hands that write her epic, her tragedy. Choose wisely he must, for just as easily as she cam, she could be gone.
Dawn is here, what will he choose?
The pen stops, no longer will her sit and write, he's now a part of the mesmerizing work he's laid before her eyes.
Night is now their time, he watches while she dances her fingers through his hair, finally. . .
His work is done, he chose, and won. She smiles, meaningfully, shes born again through his words, he holds her within his own hands. . .
This is her time, watch the night, watch her dance, watch her fly away from here, but will you follow?
Choose wisely. . . life or death, you now hold your own fate, will her story be yours? Choose wisely. . .
Or does she write yours?
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Author's Comments
its a complicated poem that i wanted to put down in words.
He writes her life, everything that he does, she revolves her life around. He sits to write the story one night, and as morning approached, he had a decision to make, either leave her or be with her. He then chooses to be with her and he follows her through her life, and realizes that she wrote her life too. |
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Comments
Wow!
You've outdone yourself again. Love this!
--
Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond all measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us the most.
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Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate, our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond all measure. It is our light, not our darkness that frightens us the most.
Of course, by now, you know me to be a big fan of yours, but what I have to say is not fan material, but an honestl, early opinion.
The situation in the work is so deeply romantic, in the true sense of the word. It reminds me of that which would come from the mind of Poe or the Bronte sisters, who were novelists, but nonetheless romantic.
This ethereal realm, and it's abundant love is mind-blowing. The choices you call for are immensely dramatic. Some of the imagery is quite astonishing and memorable.
I have a sense, too, that one thing that is so appealing about this is it's combining the passion with an act or writing...therefore allegorical with all art forms. That really is astounding. What a great combination. I think you've hit on something with tremendous dramatic power.
I'm going to study this some more, in order to get a real handle on it. I humbly suggest that you review this work and continue to refine it from time to time. I don't think you're really finished with the refinement process, and it's too much of a gem to go unfinished.
"This is her time, watch the night, watch her dance, watch her fly away from here, but will you follow?" I love the way this line comes right at a very important moment. The tempo of the work is very impressive.
Well, that's enough blathering for now. This is one more notch in my measuring how impressive you are, and what a talent you have. I thought I was finished being impressed, but I was wrong. To my complete surprise, here seems to be no final limit to your talent, after all...and that's no blarney. Don't feel alone with the problems faced by the talented in an uncaring world. You are not alone, and the struggle goes on and on.
Thanks.
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