Truths and Tales
Drama, despondency and delight.
Poetry is sinless manipulation,
that blends fiction with unbearable truths,
paints tapestries of different souls,
or crafts paradoxical tales.
Poets sing stories of their past lives,
with shades of ivory and lucid,
or paint murals of transient souls
with shades of amber and vermillion.
I don’t write of love,
garnered through purple romance,
but of pain, longing, and contentment,
stirring within dew drops and hues.
Palpitations roused,
by thorns and roses of melancholy,
bleed onto pages like ink,
from an overflowing cartridge.
Yearning for things that once existed,
or never existed to begin with,
by painting them as sunsets and moonlight
that act as refuges from scorn.
If others find romance within my stories,
of bloody roses and piercing stars,
I would cordially sit back,
and let them turn thunderclouds into gentle rains.
Poetry; a dynamic canvas.
Rivers of emotion,
portrayed as devastating grey skies,
or lush clouds of bliss.
I may write about my own assortment,
of storms and chains,
or a fusion of my stanzas with
the songs sung by souls of passersby.
There is beauty and poignancy,
in the inability to decipher the souls of some poets,
as they either paint themselves bare on a canvas,
or elegantly conjure a Droste effect of myths.
