You're silent. There's too much love to contemplate.
Whatever you say, due to the anatomy of reception,
Is yours to enforce and theirs to forget, or ignore;
If they're scared, they'll laugh or mock you;
If they can't become the spectre which loosens
The self-made figure of thought we find in death
Then they groove their identity from fury
And pride, no matter how cheap it is, it is theirs.
You count the numbers of limbo. It is created.
It's useless; just as the words I've said...
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Author:
lucaso (
Offline) - Published: August 10th, 2018 22:05
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Poetic Dan
Offline)
Comments2
So very true. A lot of depth you put into this piece. Great work!
As unless as what water is to this earth
Or the trees that help us breathe
Deep down we all know everything is here for a reason, yours was too make sure I keep on reading and expanding.
It's all ripple and your wave now moves on
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