the hourglass runs low

The original version of the hourglass..in it’s free form…before the rewrite. Written in a small bedroom of a small green house many moons ago… Keep in
mind it was written by a preteen.

The night grows dark around me
The hourglass runs low
The things I see surround me
Yet I know not where to go.

I see them drawing nearer
I have nowhere else to go
My love for him grows colder
And the hourglass runs low.

My eyes have now grown clearer
And all I can see is him
He who treated me so badly
And tore my soul from limb to limb.

The hourglass is almost empty
Because I see what I’m here for
There’s blood everywhere-I killed him
Now the hourglass is no more.

Hmm

I wonder what I should do

Should it rhyme and be long

Or should I write a haiku

This poem plagues my thoughts

Indecisiveness in it’s form

Indecisiveness in it’s subject

Should I not write at all

Or should they all be written

My heart aches to write!

Why is this so hard?

My voice yearns to be heard

In the form of written word

My voice, silent all these years

Awaits my decision

On which poem to write

It awaits my decision with patience

I will write this poem

I will write and be heard

 

inspired by @OldSchoolHaiku in 2011..

Deception

my eyes do not know
how to look at you
the fire I started
surrounds my body
from within
it is comforting
while the waves
hit my feet
and disappear
how is it the clouds
know my pain
when all the world
can do is laugh
swim to me
come back to me
with the ease of the ancients
I know your soul
it bounces off my web
and settles
in the belly of giants

tapestry

floating in the tapestry of nothing
it has touched your soul with the virus
of overwhelming darkness
i have not forgotten what it feels like
to be engulfed
in the tragic flames of hades
answer me this while you listen to the night sky
scream out it’s resistance
why can’t I
can’t i
look into my own eyes

7-11-12

and now a mouse…

7-10-12
i am dead to the world
the weeping willow of my heart
has hung it’s fronds in the face of disaster
my memory thinks it has
forgotten something as
the crunch of bone beneath
my feet has
splintered my soul

and now a mouse
has eighteen toes
in the quicksand
of doubt

being born from
the eyes of truth
it hasn’t began
to seek the presence
of it’s other soul.
how can i recollect
these memories
while being frozen
in the ash of tomorrow?

hasten not to the
battlefield
our ears hear
the calling of
truth.