A poem I dedicate to my 7 year old sibling.
A sea of edges, sharply sliding
Slipping softly into skys
Of dark, with deep misguiding eyes
And yet he's smiling, gently, still
Panting fog from breath so warm
Bush of apples in his arm
My brother waves to me on shore
Sitting, sleeping, dreaming for
The bike my brother's riding
For nothing shoves me into shelves
Of distant ghosts of rising halves
My brother works the oval wheels
A limb and creamy way he paths
The sun is low, and yet he laughs
Along with me, my brother's smile
He squeaks along, a charm attack
The lanes, they give him no attack
The bike lets off a little slack
My brother sets me free
He needs a constant, slow reminding
Though it's written in the rock
And he still can mock my soul
With the chatter of his teeth
Though few they are, a force to be
A fearsom batch of foes they are
A stand that symbols where we are
I know just where I are and be
Just where I've always been, you see
The way the wise man once had said
That until I'm sick or dead
I will be beside this cliff
In this field of growing rye
And my brother in the sea
Shall never forth escape my eye
Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 584 times
Written on 2007-09-10 at 07:10
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
My Brother
Iron ships are sailingA sea of edges, sharply sliding
Slipping softly into skys
Of dark, with deep misguiding eyes
And yet he's smiling, gently, still
Panting fog from breath so warm
Bush of apples in his arm
My brother waves to me on shore
Sitting, sleeping, dreaming for
The bike my brother's riding
For nothing shoves me into shelves
Of distant ghosts of rising halves
My brother works the oval wheels
A limb and creamy way he paths
The sun is low, and yet he laughs
Along with me, my brother's smile
He squeaks along, a charm attack
The lanes, they give him no attack
The bike lets off a little slack
My brother sets me free
He needs a constant, slow reminding
Though it's written in the rock
And he still can mock my soul
With the chatter of his teeth
Though few they are, a force to be
A fearsom batch of foes they are
A stand that symbols where we are
I know just where I are and be
Just where I've always been, you see
The way the wise man once had said
That until I'm sick or dead
I will be beside this cliff
In this field of growing rye
And my brother in the sea
Shall never forth escape my eye
Poetry by weirdzarun
Read 584 times
Written on 2007-09-10 at 07:10
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
|
Lea Foverskov |
|
Elle |
| Texts |
 by weirdzarun Latest textsRoseI've got you New Poetland Bells h My favoritesStanding Ovation |
Increase font
Decrease