(no subject)
Hey hey
so, this may be too long for most people to read, but, I figured, eh, might as well post it anyways. lately writing is really the only thing i want to do, which is probably bad considering how most of the time i can't get myself to write. uh oh?
On the eve of the frost,
The ice did sing
To chariots billowing through
The frozen trees,
All crashing and sounding
Their voices like doves to the air.
On the eve of the frost,
Each frozen leaf
Did lie scattered,
Snapping to the cool hum
Of a deep brown boot.
White,
The air hung low in the sky,
Tangled in the tree limbs,
Held down from
Reaching out to that
Warm atmosphere above,
And so the trees did sweat
The mist they cradled.
Dripping down,
An hour glass,
Slowly sinking to the earth,
The clouds were
Making white trees
In the forest,
On the eve of the frost.
Each step she took,
With white-laced feet,
Took the air in hand and
Twirled,
With it always trailing,
And she weaved between the brown
And white trees,
A light push of breath
From a distant sigh.
And then,
Soft ailing,
Likened unto a spear
Turned sharply onto
Itself,
Whispers left her
Hollow heart,
A blazing shadow
Covered in mist and frost
From the backlash of her tongue,
So that the figure,
The vessels once harbored
In her narrow chest,
Danced breathlessly
Through the condensed,
Suffocated woods,
And there was she,
Left bare and
Brave,
To
Follow those chariots,
On the eve of the frost.
And still,
On the ground with all
Joints aching
To turn away,
Was the gentle lisp of Autumn,
White flakes spitting noise,
Confused with his brown sole:
A montage of sturdy and sharp
Did lie scattered.
The split of frosted ground
Did sound of careless agenda,
The shuffling of hooves
Before a gallant step,
She thought for sure,
And laced the air
With smooth silk
From her lofty white robe
As, there,
She hunted him down,
On the eve of the frost.
And so,
With the changing of the seasons,
She left her blinding search,
For chariots,
Racing with the winter wind,
Pushed by spring’s breeze,
To embrace the mellow melting
Of her cold and
Frosted chambers,
And, to think!
Twas just the
Harsh rapture
From the isolated footsteps
Of his dirty brown boot,
Mud graffiti painted,
With the names of
South Australia and
Atlanta City,
That played the role of
Father Time,
Shifting the weather
Like changing coats.
On the eve of the frost,
The frost did melt,
And in its place
The eve of the rough,
Entangled spirit of
Frost: the light and
Damp air,
Saturated by the
Sigh of fading winter;
Coming, and knowing,
Spring,
Thinking drearily of
The fading of spring.
so, this may be too long for most people to read, but, I figured, eh, might as well post it anyways. lately writing is really the only thing i want to do, which is probably bad considering how most of the time i can't get myself to write. uh oh?
On the eve of the frost,
The ice did sing
To chariots billowing through
The frozen trees,
All crashing and sounding
Their voices like doves to the air.
On the eve of the frost,
Each frozen leaf
Did lie scattered,
Snapping to the cool hum
Of a deep brown boot.
White,
The air hung low in the sky,
Tangled in the tree limbs,
Held down from
Reaching out to that
Warm atmosphere above,
And so the trees did sweat
The mist they cradled.
Dripping down,
An hour glass,
Slowly sinking to the earth,
The clouds were
Making white trees
In the forest,
On the eve of the frost.
Each step she took,
With white-laced feet,
Took the air in hand and
Twirled,
With it always trailing,
And she weaved between the brown
And white trees,
A light push of breath
From a distant sigh.
And then,
Soft ailing,
Likened unto a spear
Turned sharply onto
Itself,
Whispers left her
Hollow heart,
A blazing shadow
Covered in mist and frost
From the backlash of her tongue,
So that the figure,
The vessels once harbored
In her narrow chest,
Danced breathlessly
Through the condensed,
Suffocated woods,
And there was she,
Left bare and
Brave,
To
Follow those chariots,
On the eve of the frost.
And still,
On the ground with all
Joints aching
To turn away,
Was the gentle lisp of Autumn,
White flakes spitting noise,
Confused with his brown sole:
A montage of sturdy and sharp
Did lie scattered.
The split of frosted ground
Did sound of careless agenda,
The shuffling of hooves
Before a gallant step,
She thought for sure,
And laced the air
With smooth silk
From her lofty white robe
As, there,
She hunted him down,
On the eve of the frost.
And so,
With the changing of the seasons,
She left her blinding search,
For chariots,
Racing with the winter wind,
Pushed by spring’s breeze,
To embrace the mellow melting
Of her cold and
Frosted chambers,
And, to think!
Twas just the
Harsh rapture
From the isolated footsteps
Of his dirty brown boot,
Mud graffiti painted,
With the names of
South Australia and
Atlanta City,
That played the role of
Father Time,
Shifting the weather
Like changing coats.
On the eve of the frost,
The frost did melt,
And in its place
The eve of the rough,
Entangled spirit of
Frost: the light and
Damp air,
Saturated by the
Sigh of fading winter;
Coming, and knowing,
Spring,
Thinking drearily of
The fading of spring.