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My Hundredth Opuss For you... Each day when we wake up, we think of how this day may be... Maybe about someone we care for or...someone we miss. Or maybe...miss someone you've never met like I have.
Fey. Can charm the petals. Off the moon. She walks in the corridors. Of confidence. I am a smear on the painting. Of her days. A drying blemish. Fey,. so strange and complicated. Drunk on Sundays.
Long elegant strides, Gentle steps as she walks by, A delicate breeze wafts around, As sunshine floats among the clouds.
(okay, please keep in mind I don't normally write poetry, I'm just trying something new :) Walking at night through a cemetery, Each of our footfalls cautious and weary, Fleeting promises among the...
In oak clad vale, before time-weary flames a hundred bards, story-tellers, and those that remember those things long lost and forgotten, did meet but once every four-score years and ten.
A radiant ochre sundown Conjures an orange haze Over a tired shanty town, Met with a bloody mist, Sweeping the reddish ground. A Nirvanic breeze sedately falls, Silencing the beaten byways.
Вспомнил тут, что раньше писал и сейчас пишу сказки и рассказы. Вот один рассказ основанный на реальных событиях. Жил был молодой парень. Как-то раз этот парень повстречал девушку небывалой красоты.
As I sit on the sand watching me life wash up on the shore and the last rays of sun glisten of the endless waves of possibility.