Is Dead

From the Archives #Throwback

THOTPURGE

Who will sing of your beauty now, this poet’s light is dead.
The day is mourning, veiled in black; this heinous night is dead.

Bloodied stars drip from the sky, the rain begins to weep.
The earth covers her naked chest; love’s last delight is dead.

Words hang in the air like fireflies, without their glowing souls.
Close those pages, bottle the ink; the spirit to write is dead!

They build a pyre of silent songs, cut from the hardened air.
It burns, dark-eyed, like his eyes; that flame once bright is dead.

With a lantern of broken memories, she wanders through his mind.
So many lines, not one goodbye; whatever was right is dead.

Who will sing of your beauty now, the poet’s sight is dead.
Where he lay, black roses bloom; even the blight is dead.

(In Ghazal format)
April:#24- 15/30

View original post

Advertisements

Leave a Thot, Leave a Poem...You've Come This Far...

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s