Stories Told On High
Interrupt and enfold me in your arms
where the sun rests for hours in tides.
Listen to the stories told on high,
speak to me melodically, running your fingers through my hair.
Reap what I sow, live as I grow.
Seek what I know, bleed as I go.
Here resides the tree of memory
it reaches longingly for the setting sun.
Bright as any and torn asunder,
the shadow birthed by the sun is long indeed.
It reaches here, to my castle built of sand,
crawling up the walls and seeping into my eyes.
It's a golden eye, residing in the sky.
The shadows make me cry, so I am forced to lie.
In the shadow cast by the gallows,
I see the bodies strung up high.
The tears spilt from lifeless eyes
rises in waves, washing my castle's walls away.
YOU ARE READING
The Dragon Became a Modern Poetaster
PoetryPoetry is a dance of words, a guise of flesh, and a reprise of thought. The myths of old are forgotten on modern tongues. Such adventurous spirits seek new vessels - fresh words to don and call their own. We shall write them home, you and I. Let the...
