Was it love or was I blind

All things end with the passing time

To know or not in my mind

Sublime and eerie haunting rhyme

Whispers softly as it hides

The trebles of tremble in the voice meek of rebels

Fallible fiction of hope constitutes little

Running away from troubles

The feeling of unlovable

..

Cowardice of the heart stops

When this is the only moment

Sequacious gold armaments

Won’t speak like print on paper

A blackened heart surely will be squeezed dry

Until our inner voices narrate in thumping beats

And the inkling of our desires run rampant

..

The devotion of a sister in black cloth

Highlights her face in a frame of white

Is the forgiveness for my obscenity lost

In all the horrid things I may come to write

Will you still be able to recognize me

When this blood runs dry

Scrawled because I emphasize that we

In love will surely die

Her hands gentle like the morning sun against my skin

Traced the words of her prayer, a cross for a war within

© The Sad Owl

Categories: poetry

Tagged as: love owl poem poetry sad writing

The Sad Owl

I'm just here. Until I'm not.