Jul 21, 2017, 8:14 AM

The Poetic Passions I 

  Poetry » Love, Landscape, Phylosophy, Odys and poems
1531 0 0

The flame of old is kindled with a burning passion.
The hopes and dreams return in a blinding fashion.
The watcher sees through the flaming fields of smoke,
beyond the veil of the heart which in countless pieces broke. 

 

Words fall short and stiff like a coward on the edge of a cliff
Words alone are lost in translation with the heart’s frustration.
Yet what is found is pure revelation and a pristine sensation. 
The archetype beyond mere passion is laid bare and clear – 
fleeting fragments of dreams beyond horizons and oh so near.
It was never true that love’s direction was a mere individual – 
it was a character of imagination and dreams residual. 

 

With eyes half-closed and a heart on a funeral pyre,
one falls prey to one’s own misshapen desire.
To fully know what all these years have brought to bear, 
one must blindly climb the broken spiral stair.
A journey into the depths of shadow and flame
one must embark on with no fear of death or pain.

 

The greatest desire of a life has shown itself to be a lie,
the greatest deception that the watcher can’t dare deny.
The feast upon endless tears and the hidden shrieking fears,
the frozen bloody wastes, the air full of foul smells and tastes,
the cries of widows’ grief upon a world on the edge of breaking –
all those souls beyond damnation and their hopes ripe for the taking.

 

A lone quiet voice whispers words of wisdom in the dark.
The night of thickest shadow harbors a single bright spark.
The terror of the heart burning till not even ashes remain
was a tyrannically cruel lesson in knowledge and in pain.

 

The poet had lost his head among the clouds of endless dreams
while his heart had slept for ages in a cage of tortured screams.
What was lost is now found and its fate is wildly unbound.
A poetic slash of the strings of old is the key to stories untold.
A crown of burning gold singing from the star-filled dome,
a choir of harmonic voices reaching heaven and beyond,
the poet found his lost wings when he slashed the old strings.

 

His passion was confused, twisted and absurd for ages,
bewildering to no end even the wisest of gray sages. 
His vision burning was bound in deep and hopeless yearning, 
his eyes fell on the wrong place – the most beautiful young face.

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