Again, Thank you
for letting me pick that
wonderful brain of yours
~L.~
I dreamt of being rescued
from this stony precipice,
by the kindest of the kind,
with beauty words can't define
an Angel for my troubled needs...
Instead I find myself
Bound,lifted and dragged
by unkind Ravens, all equally black,
beaks bloody from ripping my wounds,
feasting on my tortured self
desolate in the mirror...
I find myself
standing, waiting here
in the corridors of night obscured
between layers of waking
and dreaming, waiting mute
and motionless, waiting
for the nothingness to find me
as I crouch stone-faced
by the precipice conjuring
visions like a mystic listening,
envisioning . . .
An unkindness of Ravens arrive,
a formation of slick black,
magnetic heads on the horizon
arcing, zeroing in, deciphering
time through patterns of flight,
decoding dark and light,
folding inward,
detassling,
row by row,
golden-haired fields of flux...
It is beautiful to be
In the dying air,
In some secret place
Pretending not to be
Whilst we wring out these fitful lines
All Ravens turn white
like winter washed
And the white hush ends
all but a loud beat...
Finish with a pensive romantic flourish
Spilled rose petals adorn my naked flesh
I am left lustful for life
And impassioned by storms
Our faces keen
in the fiery glow of Heaven...
A glow created by trust of self,
by following one's intuition
and riding high in wings of warmth
carried on the back of white Ravens
tinged with feathers of black...
Poetry by liz munro
Read 1438 times
Written on 2009-06-17 at 10:34
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for letting me pick that
wonderful brain of yours
~L.~
Raven's Song[Co-Write With A.R.Glasgow]
I dreamt of being rescued
from this stony precipice,
by the kindest of the kind,
with beauty words can't define
an Angel for my troubled needs...
Instead I find myself
Bound,lifted and dragged
by unkind Ravens, all equally black,
beaks bloody from ripping my wounds,
feasting on my tortured self
desolate in the mirror...
I find myself
standing, waiting here
in the corridors of night obscured
between layers of waking
and dreaming, waiting mute
and motionless, waiting
for the nothingness to find me
as I crouch stone-faced
by the precipice conjuring
visions like a mystic listening,
envisioning . . .
An unkindness of Ravens arrive,
a formation of slick black,
magnetic heads on the horizon
arcing, zeroing in, deciphering
time through patterns of flight,
decoding dark and light,
folding inward,
detassling,
row by row,
golden-haired fields of flux...
It is beautiful to be
In the dying air,
In some secret place
Pretending not to be
Whilst we wring out these fitful lines
All Ravens turn white
like winter washed
And the white hush ends
all but a loud beat...
Finish with a pensive romantic flourish
Spilled rose petals adorn my naked flesh
I am left lustful for life
And impassioned by storms
Our faces keen
in the fiery glow of Heaven...
A glow created by trust of self,
by following one's intuition
and riding high in wings of warmth
carried on the back of white Ravens
tinged with feathers of black...
Poetry by liz munro
Read 1438 times
Written on 2009-06-17 at 10:34
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
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by liz munro Latest textsBlind, DeafLove stormy heart Soul Earthquake(pan tou m) Fate. My favoritesHurtingJourney man Rainy day thoughts Birds song The Sorry Poem |
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