A figure haunts my weary dreams.
From the darkest pits of time
It slowly rises as in smoke
And gently waving pensive arms
Casts a thousand-questions glance.
Out of time I grope about
In the vacant room of dream
And watch the slide of pouring sands
Which scream and tell me what I lost.
Out of ashes drenched with tears
Rose the blooming golden moon
And begged me then with open arms
To leap into a hope of bliss.
Tangled all in rotten weeds
I could only fall and sigh.
Caught in clock, I trudge along
And queue-up for my rationed joy.
8 comments:
Uuuh! What images!!...and certainly awesome expression...From where do u fetch such notions n phrases?....Seriously Abs! I got to learn from you.....hats off!
Very nice...I do like the line rose the blooming golden moon...
Nice to see you at RT ~
(if you want more comments, you may have to turn off your word verification as its difficult to see)
This had the greatest stuttering rythm to it, and an edgy feel. the title is awesome. Nice work.
Rationed Joy: I hope joy is not rationed. I hope it is infinite. Your poem gave me food for thought for sure.
Fantastic, Abin, "a thousand-questions glance" is a line worth a thousands words.
K
rationed joy? oh that makes me want to scream.
Great job here with the meter, which makes the poem seem to rhyme even when it doesn't--excellent language and imagery as well.
I was most struck by the golden blooming moon, too - and the "rationed joy" really resonates.Wonderful poetry.
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