Death, its grey winged whispered flight,
hovers a shroud of eerie light above the soul,
its presence shades all thoughts of days with light,
when clear skies, filled with sailing clouds of white
made all seem
all right,
all safe,
all pleasing to the sight,
Now
dank, dead roses rot inside the heart,
those flowers of red
that once took part in the arts of life,
loves gentleness imparted;
sensed the scent,
the velvet softness touched by cheek and lip,
now bleeds.
The twisted neck, the thorn still sharp,
pierces the place, where, held in gauze,
woven with feelings of comradeship
is seized to part, like some torn thread,
apart.
Alone on this gaunt sward of dew-soaked grass,
no more to hear your voice,
as all is now reduced to dark.
There sounds the bird that flies so high to blue,
the lark.
Comments
Ann
Sounds a sad write, as if expected changes are overshadowed for the worse, I am not going to talk about after life.
Your piece was very good in its theme and flow.
All I can say about thoughts of these things, I remember only the good things about most people, and to me it sends them love where ever they have gone to, Yours Ian.T
a lover of nature
ought to see
the end ...
as an inevitable part of existence
the obverse of a coin at birth
so grieve not yet
for the time hasn't arrived
to counter
that which makes one bereft
It was just a little painting
It was just a little painting of death,
inspired by the grey sad looking weather outside the window,
I was indulging in it's atmosphere, I do not feel so different
when someone has died, they are still in my mind as they
always were, and once dead, that's that, there's no going back,
and I live in the now, so when they are not there in person,
then I might take them with me in mind-just for a while.
A excuse for a poem. Thank you both.
Love Ann.