As life becomes an empty tome,
clear water, hot, it feels like home,
does bath away the leaving sting
and sets the scene where angels sing.
Next comes a scratch, the perfect spell
to see it all you know so well.
The palette fills with shades of then,
yesterdays unwrit with pen.
Nonetheless, there go the cast
of plays unfolding, true at last,
afore no ears or eyes to see
what really was the best of thee.
This vision is as abstract can,
asphyxiation’s only plan.
Now lays amidst an ocean, clothed
in all that ever was betrothed.
©8th December 2011 Hey Hey
1 comment:
I wanted this to be a sonnet but two lines wouldn't disappear:
'This vision is as abstract can,
asphyxiation’s only plan.'
I think they give a reason for the ending (the final two lines).
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