At the ShoreThe sky above me is rich with infinite hues, blending together like paint on an artist's palette. On the distant horizon so far from humanity the sun burns, vibrant in its incandescence, and powerful; orange and yet beyond any color. Its face rests upon the water, and a trembling image of itself is seen as quavering shafts of light, a tenuous image constantly disturbed by the steady waves. The sun's weaker twin does not have the same brilliance, yet is in itself beautiful, like a stamp that has been used far too long to be deciphered: the edges undefined, the visage faltering, but charming in its age. The ink pad is that of the heavens themselves, a great celestial dye coloring the water, printed with the care brought by millenia of experience.The sand beneath my feet appears gold in the light, as if all the world's riches had been cast to sea and transformed into dust by the persistent tides. Its touch is as soft as the finest si
Forgotten Dreams of SocietyOn the shore of eternity, where time is daily born again and left to die at the sun's setting like an orphaned child, precious but forgotten, there is a silent beach made of sand from a million hour glasses. There is the ticking of a great clock, sounding the difference between past and future with its deafening silence with each passing moment. There are shells whispering. Secrets. Secrets. Secrets of the sea, of the world. There the swift tide of reality pulls lofty dreams under to bury them beneath the surface forever. But in time they crawl from their watery tombs to lie upon the strand, gasping, waiting for someone to pick them up and cherish them again. And there is silence on the shores of eternity as time is interred forever among the forgotten dreams of society.
At the Ruins of a CathedralThe angels sing with broken wings above the lofty doors,Their shattered hymns of shattered praise fall still upon the floor.Upon their hair of purest gold sits glimm'ring, heav'nly crownsAbove their lips of finest red and gleaming eyes of fire.Down to the broken altar clothed in tattered, broken gownsFall the angels from the land above the lofty spire.To fly again they always try but never to succeed,trapped behind the stained-glass cage and never to be freed.
SpringtimeI caught springtime in a bottle,Saving it for darker daysYears upon my shelf it lay,Lonely, save its own faint glow.Green and warm it was,With the kindness of a friend´s embrace.Its bottle of clear crystal,Pure as water, fragile as new glassInsubstantial as a dream at daybreak,Transient as the wings of a butterflyIt seems to hum with new lifelike the heartbeat of a newborn.But there are cracks along its surface now,Like the finest laceThey drape across the surface;It would shatter at a gossamer touch.The green grows dimmer every day,As the glass grows weaker.Its innocence leaking away into the terror of the world.But I am happy.Perhaps it will fall in the form of the tiniest of snowflakesAgainst the cheek of one who weeps,Perhaps it will alight in the heart of a warrior,And make him lay down his weapon forever.Or perhaps it will float into the eyes of a child,So that he may never lose hope.Farewell, springtime! Perhaps I will catch you again,B
Thanks
Great job narathira