Saturday, 29 December 2018

I have barely written a thing.

This year is almost at an end
And I have barely written a thing.
It seems my pen has taken wings
And nested in a gloomy field.
Veiled or rather lost
Is my trust for my own lute.
A wailing wind, wavering courage;
I dare not ink my thoughts so bold.
But here I stand on the precipice of this year
That I vow to write more solemn and
Some on silly things - Dwelling
With poetry overlooking the wild extravagance
of an imaginative mind, too many
that each must be one of a kind,
And I, also one of a kind
In a land where man should admire
The starry Nights and wonder
How such a God would care so deep,
That He would leave the space Inbetween.


K.Oni

The tears will not rise

The tears will not rise, not tonight. The joy will outlast the thickened dismissal of my confession. The misgiving of ...