rainbowspirit New Member member is offline
Joined: Mar 2007 Gender: Male  Posts: 10
|  | The book of whispers. « Thread Started on Jul 2, 2009, 12:33pm » | |
Sentences that write themselves, with no need for superlatives Call blindly through the waiting mist, where evening’s patience ever lives, Though never seeking for replies, they write with so much confidence The book of whispers tells no lies, and still holds so much relevance, With braided continuity, each sentence holds on to the last Like ink stained paragraphs that bind the future’s writings to the past, And each page turns with a whisper, through the avenues of time Into portals of perception like the doorways to a rhyme.
Painted paragraphs of passion breathing deeply in the shade Give each moment the impression of a dream that’s being made, Though there is no need for slumber while the clock ticks on the wall Just a timeless sense of wonder at each second’s whispered call, And each second links together like the chain mail of a knight As the moon shines on his armour with such haunting whispered light, For the book feels such contentment with each star embroidered phrase That its whispers dance together on the seamless twilight haze.
There are chapters for completion that are not yet written down Before the Summer’s golden ink has turned to shades of brown, And last winter’s silver daggers are a distant fading dream Though each season carries whispers, they are not all that they seem, For each dormouse whisper sleeps within a solitary place That is painted with the shades of day, and woven spider lace, Until the blossom book reopens, and they dance upon each line With the finesse of forever, and with life’s eternal shine…
| |
|