His comfort,
A dying collection of senses.
His fire,
Hidden behind his eyes.
His words,
Poorer than those decked in rags.
Torn, though immaculate,
As if Heaven met ruin.
Wandering
Towards Love’s holiest empire,
Wanting an ear
To listen to what has become
Of a man, in his fear.
His sadness is a requisite
To Justice, in its depleted definition.
His tears, to fall
Upon his lap,
Show no puddles for the reflection,
No place for the recollection.
Meandering
Towards Destruction’s descended house,
With a face full of many years
To never forgive this,
As the pain draws near.
Loose pebbles
Scattered by the ocean,
Wasted in the scenery
That bleeds on, for no reason,
That streams on, without season,
Wilting in the lack of fortune
To a soul of misfortune.
Modern Romanticism 
Remarkably elegant in style and prose. There’s a wonderful depth to this poem, of many things unsaid and left to ruined histories. A genuine piece, dripping in veritable emotion. Thank you for sharing.
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Thank you very much for commenting. 🙂
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Of course. Clicking a little star is a touch too impersonal for me. Let me gush, send you my appreciation, and then I’ll hit that little star.
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