Judge and Criticise a poem I wrote afew years ago I jus' refound... one of many...

Untitled

I am the honour
That you left behind;
The one that said
You'ld never be alone.
Cold, suffering in silence
You shiver beneath the shadows
Of your own footsteps.
These walks are cursed
Under evils name
So you cower behind walls
Of your belligerence and shame;
You question the question
Of a logic old and cruel,
I am the distressed of that creation
I am your ordeal...

As quickly as you take the blame
I threaten all you speak
I lie beneath the lion's mane
Disguised I am the creep.
I can feel the soul sailing over my head
It weeps, it is mourning
For a love that is better dead.
Answer to me
That these streets are cursed
That I lie in waiting
Low beneath tear stained curbs.

Look at me
I'm not half of who i was
As we lie in tears
In shadows of doubt
I leave our honour where there is nowt
Our breath is a bitter respiration
We are the children of a mistaken inclanation.
We are flesh and we are bone
We are relentless and have no home.
Tell me your dreams
They're nothing to me
Just another set of lies


well?

you expect me to read all that???

AaronSuperior said:

yep

okay, i did.


it's nice

A poet too?? Wow.. You're full of surprises!!!
Beautiful poem by the way!!! Very nice.

.
[This message was edited Fri Apr 11 10:47:42 PDT 2003 by JaneyPoos]

Beautiful... Thanks for sharing!

Thank you everyone... found another last yearish again... ahem...

The Fallen City

A ring around a torrid tongue
Her head in her arms neatly slung,
The stains on her hands are called bitter sweet
The craven connection to the trick of decieit;
Was it the tand of victory or the quirk of defeat?
She lays beneath her cheapened gown
A clutter of the wreckage
Upon whose blood she did drown.
The mother, brother, sister, lover, father
Are all as cold as stone;
The house, the family of the dead
The trial of flaw in home of red.
Slumps and heaps
The terror creeps
Destroys the lands of which it reaps,
The city sleeps so still, and uttered
The silent voice that dared to mutter:
"War has a fashion
Its colour is styled red
A ring around a humdrum town
The spirits of its dead."