Fathom.
Glory vines itself to vindictive imagination.
As it will be, the trees are blacked;
Charcoal scraped by the jubilant seas.
Amused by the same contentment of aloof,
A taste of irate to wood-rot.
Tender the moss that renders me.
The leaves standing still, that of a painting,
Yet adequate to the cold blue serenity.
Fathom, who knows, die with its warmth.
And it comforts me as I stand at its grave,
Washed away with dejected caves.
A line, lying, as we squint to what it’s holding,
The horizon separating an emotion of past,
For the fruits of tomorrow.
Shivered of my contentment so ecstatic of the rain
That never rings its neighbouring saviour.
Poetry by John Ashleigh
Read 1080 times
Written on 2006-07-05 at 12:18
Tags Serenity  Dark 
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
Kathy Lockhart |
Zoya Zaidi |
lastromantichero |
Texts |
by John Ashleigh Latest textsDesignDylan. In between love. Transcend. Fingertips. My favoritesNightlightPhoenix Seulement One Week from Tomorrow. Betrayed |
Increase font
Decrease