Poetry & Prose

Join me on the edge of time
Where pain and fear subside
And things we've never dared to speak
Find no reason left to hide

Join me after midnights toll
While killing words still sleep
Where every secret in your heart
Will lose all will to keep

Join me before morning breaks
And unwanted eyes can see
Where imagination turns to dreams
And dreams - Reality

An old one of mine from years ago.

Interlude

Transcend frame to frame, the thoughts of a heart animated in an idle glow. And yet sadly a dozen memories put to shame over winter tears treading the change, frame to frame among scarred paper-fake smiles and time-stained tiles. He prepares himself the coming season of pain, a darkened faith one may never see, and this one which is yet to be. Treading a path of time stood still, and looking back upon the pain, these fallen leaves of grief, the breeze blows upon him the cold of past lies, ties of long closed eyes, dreams of a symbolic mechanical rejection twisting a horizon into tragic irony. What was that message to be given? Some just aren't meant to live that deserving dream.. Climb over the mountain, stand on the top, and watch them fall below their ignorance. When suddenly the page turns to the next chapter, a foreshadowing interlude of a played out tune, a habitual pattern of a time soon. Hands of the hour, ticks of the minute, they trace away the hunt, kill and skin it. Counter-clock tomorrow's light, a vision sought through a bloodshot sight, attempting to close the mind to that memory, and just let it go, yet instilled with such an enduring flashback of a lost love, the origin of swelling power blared out by a speaker of song, a long wail of a fist smashing away the walls, tear them all down, rip them apart one by one until he's reached these doors. A rusted faded steel of sleeping sores. The knob grabbed at his hand and beckon itself open slower than a galactic birth, the revolting of just one second, where he spent his sleep that night. Just a thought running through his brain frame to frame, like an animated haze, and yet sadly another dozen memories put to shame, autumn tears treading its change. He'll prepare himself the next chapter, a repeated pattern. Hands of the hour, ticks of the minute, just another kill to take and skin it, brought home to a trophy for his past pain, the only possession left of him that day, under a weather of what was foretold. And just what was the message? Some just weren't meant to live the deserving dream. He prepares himself that coming season of pain, a darkened faith one may never see and this one which is yet to be.

"Take my hand," you say,
but our fingers slip past.
"Hold on," you shout,
But there's nothing left to grasp.
I fall,
eyes closed,
embracing death in a silent scream,
the world rushing past in a whirlwind,
glass and glitter piercing my skin,
light bouncing off bloodstained shards
as the world goes dark.

Geez Ace, your awesome at writing

I see the rain drip down your face.
It's like we're suspended in time and space.
I take your hand, and I tell you to run.
Don't ever look back. It ruins the fun.
We get in my police box, and then we take flight.
We fly past the stars that glimmer at night.
I'm always on the run. I don't ever look back.
You're my companion. You take my heart and mend the cracks.
I'll take you through the universe forever and ever.
I'll take you on adventures wherever, whenever.
Some beings fear me. They call me a monster,
But you know me as simply the Doctor.

Limbs on a string, dancing as they tug,
smile plastered in a grin so smug.
You sway and sing to a hypnotic tune,
dancing alone in a forsaken room.

Stillness.
The wind blows,
the water runs,
and yet nothing moves.
Everything moves.
The earth shakes,
the fire rises,
and yet nothing changes.
Everything changes.
Space glimmers,
time moves forward,
and yet nothing phases.
Everything phases.
Motion.

Saturn rings and phoenix wings,
a cloak of stardust thread.
I am queen of sand box land,
the king of heart and head.

I've read all of these but haven't commented much so I thought I probably should.

I enjoy these. All of them. You guys are awesome and have true talent. Keep it up. Poetry makes the world sound so much better.

New beginnings from ancient ends,
the point in which the story bends
from tragedy to endless bliss,
that I might say I live for this.
Maskless face and truthful gaze
keep the flames of love ablaze.
Now I know the journey's cost,
so glad am I to've loved and lost.

If you had twenty four hours left to live,
you'd tell everyone you loved and give
them every precious second of time
and consider anything less a crime.
You'd hug your loved ones and give a kiss
and hope that you'll be sorely missed.
The secret escorts you to your grave
because you know there's nothing to save.
You'll close your eyes and say goodbye
and hope to rise up to the sky
with mournful tears and hearts to break
scattered in your heavenly wake.
They'll fight their way through grief's stages
with tear stains littering empty journal pages.
They'll wonder why you never said it before,
why you couldn't just have hugged them more.
And when they triumph over grief,
the tears will dry, or least be brief.
But most of all they'll try to fill the hole
that was once the home of your soul.
And if you could do it all again,
you'd hold them tight and try to mend
the broken parts before you die
and leave each day with spirits high.
So when you look down from above,
you'll leave no doubt that they were loved.

Green eyes blinded by the dawning sun,
blinking wetly as realisation stung.
There is no time for reckless foresakening,
no time for lies in this emerald awakening.

Basking in the warm glow of your elated radiance,
my soul longs for the touch of one embrace.

Your heart bathed with the conviction of love.
My heart is open, and naked...

Receptive to the possibilities and endearments,
Longing for the tender affections of just one woman.

Whose beauty shames the muses of antiquity.

And whose gaze peers beyond my guise...
There is no concealing my passionate sentiment.

Or is there want.
And although it is not wise,

I proclaim from every thread of my retched being,
Pity me not and bear not my fates pain.

For I am loves fool...
And forever will remain.

The first rays of dawn creep past the shades,
Illuminating the seed of every mans desire.

Golden hues beam across the silhouette
Of beauty, softly sleeping.

Each line gently accented only more
by the tender caress of the nights last rest.

So inviting a scene,
yet who would disturb such a canvas.

Only all too soon will she stir,
basked in the sun.

So sweet a sight,
what the day must hold in store...

And tomorrow,
the morning will paint anew.

There are strangers in my room.
Questions, and then silence.
"Who are you?" they ask,
and I scream for them to get out,
but no one looks my way.

I wait.

They sit on my chairs and I sigh.
They look straight through me.
I pout and stomp and they ask for more.
"What do you want?"
But they ignore my reply.
"Do you know that you're dead?"
And my whole world collapses.

And thus in anguish Beren paid
for that great doom upon him laid,
the deathless love of Luthien,
too fair for love of mortal Men;
and in his doom was Luthien snared,
the deathless in his dying shared;
and Fate them forged a binding chain
of living love and mortal pain

J,R,R,Tolkein - The Lay of Leithian lines 786-793

(And Ace, that 'ghost' was a car reflection )

Akkarin wrote: (And Ace, that 'ghost' was a car reflection )

Shhhh...! :whistle: Haha, I know. I actually wrote that poem a few days back after watching Ghost Hunters, lol.

Hickory-dickory-dock,
The World rolled round th'epoque,
The clock struck One
--but just for fun--
'Twas really but seven o'clock ...

Hickory-dickory-hick,
Has everyone gone thick ?
The clock stikes six,
--a right dodgey fix--
In a World gone mentally sick.

Can you hear the drumbeat,
the rhythm of being and blood,
of humanity's core pulsing,
flowing through our water-wrapped planet
from gravity's union with our distant star?

There is a drumbeat, a tribal dance,
a living, breathing body
that cycles through every atom.
There is a council of all who dwell,
and those who can hear the drumbeat,
they sing.

Never stop singing,
for what is a beat without a melody
but a half-finished masterpiece?

Poetry can be;
Thought provoking and very fun;
Don't you think? Chicken.