I'm back
I'll go and comment in a couple of hours time on the recent stuff, here's something I wrote whilst away:
The death of romanticism part 2 (the sea)
So I shall tell you a tragic tale, this lore
A story of a stroll which made me sore.
It began with a brainstorm, a hasty lure
As I unbolted my mind’s rusting door
I found myself seeing beauty no more!
The wind whipped me like rough straw
And left me scathed and searching for
A harbor or shelter, I opened my jaw
But the storm swallows my sounds raw.
With nature’s trinkets lining the shore
Singing a soft harmonic song; a bore.
To me the disbeliever, whose very core
Was bleeding, the very life seeping sore
Struck by shells (the poetic justice law.)
I stand facing the ocean, its cruel claw
Scratches my soul as I lament an amour
Just like Poe wept for his sweet Lenore.
The sea is dragging my shattered poor
Soul not ashore but deep within its store
Of broken-hearted poets (with mental gore.)
Plath tried to drown within the sea’s store
A suicide decked with shells, rocks and more
But it merely gnawed at her and it did draw
A hostile, spluttering breath from her core.
A futile suicide, the water spat Sylvia ashore.
Her body on the sand, shivering, left to thaw
Fantasized about sinking into the sea once more.
Didn’t the philosophers live near the shores
Of Greek Islands where they sat and thought?
The beautiful scenery inspired their doors
To become unlocked to reveal the floors
Upon which intellect lay, behind the doors.
But I am on a sea of uncertainty with no floor
And I can’t see knowledge, just vacant jaws
Open with ignorance, “Truth!” they implore.
A story of a stroll which made me sore.
I found myself seeing beauty no more.
The wind whipped me like rough straw.
My core was bleeding, life seeping sore.
My soul was scratched by the sea’s claw.
Suicide decked with shells, rocks and more.
I can’t see knowledge, just vacant jaws.
The death of romanticism part 2 (the sea)
So I shall tell you a tragic tale, this lore
A story of a stroll which made me sore.
It began with a brainstorm, a hasty lure
As I unbolted my mind’s rusting door
I found myself seeing beauty no more!
The wind whipped me like rough straw
And left me scathed and searching for
A harbor or shelter, I opened my jaw
But the storm swallows my sounds raw.
With nature’s trinkets lining the shore
Singing a soft harmonic song; a bore.
To me the disbeliever, whose very core
Was bleeding, the very life seeping sore
Struck by shells (the poetic justice law.)
I stand facing the ocean, its cruel claw
Scratches my soul as I lament an amour
Just like Poe wept for his sweet Lenore.
The sea is dragging my shattered poor
Soul not ashore but deep within its store
Of broken-hearted poets (with mental gore.)
Plath tried to drown within the sea’s store
A suicide decked with shells, rocks and more
But it merely gnawed at her and it did draw
A hostile, spluttering breath from her core.
A futile suicide, the water spat Sylvia ashore.
Her body on the sand, shivering, left to thaw
Fantasized about sinking into the sea once more.
Didn’t the philosophers live near the shores
Of Greek Islands where they sat and thought?
The beautiful scenery inspired their doors
To become unlocked to reveal the floors
Upon which intellect lay, behind the doors.
But I am on a sea of uncertainty with no floor
And I can’t see knowledge, just vacant jaws
Open with ignorance, “Truth!” they implore.
A story of a stroll which made me sore.
I found myself seeing beauty no more.
The wind whipped me like rough straw.
My core was bleeding, life seeping sore.
My soul was scratched by the sea’s claw.
Suicide decked with shells, rocks and more.
I can’t see knowledge, just vacant jaws.