I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
Why don't we marvel At sensation's eulogy For what has been lost?
By D. J. Reddall2 years ago in Poets
Somnambulist, swanning through silk silence Invisible is your map of the night Listen to sleep’s pure, phantom poetry Egress from the mundane, it promises
Imagining things I may be, but you Appear to be ignoring other eyes And gazing just at me, as if on cue; Your ancient gaze shreds my modern disguise
Your valuables Are worthless when compared to Your moral values
A vacant variable; a cloaked void Coat, hat and cane framing empty, blue sky You might be worried, a bit paranoid Relax—do not this power deny
He cut off the sleeve To let me sleep, but I meant To stay his sword arm
Waiting for holiness to be restored For a new temple and a fresh priesthood For renewed life for those lost and adored
So much is given Unknown, unnoticed, ignored For the sake of life
To run for office You must survive some hopeless Misery, like us
Squadrons of sound strafe sleek serenity Innocence lost, every night Listen, it makes you more interesting: coated in cacophony
Halved so precisely The black egg of fitful sleep Sliced by light's quick knife
What is the difference between people and things? Mere objects; just there being, for a while Never knowing what it is like for beings
