Writers Pain.
Flickering of a candle, the pen it’s bleeding… pulsating in my hand of sorrow…
Redundant to fundamental dissertations. Thesis lay silent to lips of tomorrow…
Meditation of fragment glory, residual only through lost scriptures of a fatigue…
Hard ship it lays desolate in desperate mammon… a love of riches in the sand…
Venomous nouns celebrate, carronade thy loss of life through parched can-vas…
My society of beckoning wisdom, falcate flowers a the page written we march…
From Shakespeare, Hemingway, the bohemian revolution is of age cross page…
Lessened only by disbelievers of love, freedom, the power of status unknown…
Light finds it’s home vigorously upon vapour that once tore away at my sight…
The spirits that once tormented our being, now acts as a endowment of delight.
The soul that pours carnivorous vowels…
Tempts humanity to indulge in a fight…
Jesters of the gestures of heart light…
Handled by lesser man of late…
Testaments of haggard…
Light in which…
Is…
Scared beyond belief
Under shadows, so desperate
Shadows of gathered benevolence…
Hindering grace, grace of fallen dammed…
The manuscripts that blend our hearts race…
Together in a mesh of hazy grey as we befriend end.
Sensitive genetics of yesterday’s slender, the night of man, fallen curtain upon…
Gold lace, shimmering memory of seductive felonies of fate, destiny lays solely…
With-in a grasp of sedative writer, his eyes weary with tainted belief and solace…
Face rendered blind to happiness, malice, thus animosity distant in deep sleep…
Brand a man of which broken, yet would a man smashed in sorrow drink from…
The cup of poets, in the mist in which demonstrates so gracefully it’s beauty? …
Summer day’s bloom, children fuss, fight, and light the path of future present…
In the deep dark dank sanctum of followers, sheep of the Shepard leaders cast…
Marinates as to select a new breed of creative generations, upon the pedestal…
That is intricate into tomorrow’s scripts, rendering another writers pain as one.