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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2020651
by J. Lee
Rated: E · Poetry · Philosophy · #2020651
In contemplation of time.

And again, her small hand pointed east.
And again, my blood cared less than it flowed,
And flowed less than it cared.

The eastern scape - always so littered with its deep escape.
Crumbling beneath trembling shock
And serenity.

Release, and now.

Where have I not journeyed, that still I need the northern lights
To tell me when my skies are blue or black?

Where have I forgotten to seek,
That east calls my attention to spare her loneliness.
Nay.  Indeed, to spare mine own.

Her shooting fame just imagery,
Here, in the warmth and synergy
Of wretched cast ‘pon tickled delight
Of rhyme and sense, of word and fight.

Insane.  Delusive. 
Conducive with intrusiveness
Through proof, alluding uselessness
As youthfulness,
Caged within this mess
Of age and…
Too much to lose, I guess.

As her hand gently drops to the south,
The falsities fade with each dying breath.

Her heaven below her.
Her heaven above.
Her desire to steal the fire
That burns within deceit and mire, with love,
The truth I hold.

Ne'er awake, until I sleep.

My blessings are with you, and her hand is…
T’is only another suggested direction to choose.

In time, I shall see without.

© Copyright 2014 J. Lee (printit at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2020651