January 2010
3 posts
my words are dead birds that no longer reach you, my heart an empty castle. Child, the wolves howl for you, listen to them. Watch their yellow eyes pine for you, the dark trees whisper your name. Nothing holds you as it once had, nothing reflects, whispers, captures you. You are nothing. You have become noiseless and without a name. I will give you back, never to return again. One day you will...
the books have now decayed
their knowlege dissapaits as their pages fray
the earthworms eat the dust that lies
in hollow pockes where we once had sight
the kings throw their crowns into the sea
“woe is me, woe is me, woe is me”
the cries went out like a supernova
to say that life was finally over.
“For we cannot tarry here,
We must march my darlings, we must bear the brunt...”
– Walt Whitman - Leaves of Grass