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Rated: 13+ · Prose · Philosophy · #1617645
I haven't written in awhile. It feels good to channel things again.
see the sunlight illuminate
that spot on the wall
that once carried a frame and
the meaning of it all
within those four corners
was a hint of our fate
and the candlelight vigil
that would just have to wait.

you see, I've found some color.

That road runs ragged men
of this insidious ilk
cups full of whiskey and
clouds of ripped silk
we find comfort in our voice,
which but freezes aloft
And pray: though times may be rigid
our hearts remain soft

I see, I see the colors

broken down dreams that refuse us
their quick, timeless deaths
and the preciousness of life
that's now tallied in breaths.
another year apathetic to phones
and our friends.
denial of destiny, but those stubborn,
loose ends.

This is the source of color.

Oh black, canvas sky with your
searing, stellar starlets
only the wisest know them
as damnable harlots.
oh greed for these passions,
oh lust for this pennant soul
deliver this body homeward,
deliver it whole.

there is color yet in death, as the revolution of something abstract.

so rise with a look of
sublimity awoken,
touch the creases that formed
where the wrong words were spoken.
draw curtains tight if that spot
glares out ominously
avert eyes to shame
and the void left by honesty

that is, if you're lacking color

but if calm bravery stabs
with a sword or a pen
know it's reason, not god
who is at those games again.
with vision acute and
intent no less than pious
let in fair sunlight, make
color of petty bias
© Copyright 2009 Robert Wolfe (lastact at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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