| Wednesday, July 28, 2010 |
| When the going is all the talk is about.. |
The mention of a score of insane,
And thoughts in unbridled dismay,
Not the restlessness of the scoffed way,
Or the tire of an unending day,
Through months something has come in relent,
In ages wound by stories of dement,
Not the passion of unforeseen circumstance,
Or compassion marred in a certain trance.
Lights dimming in minds away,
And enlightening a New bay,
I struggle to keep this pace,
Failure shall be abrupt,
And in beauty it shall destruct,
In beauty it shall destruct..... |
posted by bereaved vendetta @ 7:19 AM  |
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| Wednesday, July 7, 2010 |
| Between the Day.. |
Beneath the languid restlessness lay,
Thoughts of tireless longing in vain,
The cup upside-down remained,
In sequences turned in hands untamed,
The folly lay in the hands of such,
Turned with tales of fingers and cuffs,
Yet what remained of That Empty Bay,
Were the hands on which it lay,
Submergered in a white potion,
And removed in a certain retortion,
It sinks into a world in hush,
Bequeathed to the town's rush,
A glance, a stare, she watched it gleam,
Then smiled and walked across the street. |
| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 8:01 AM |
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| Monday, July 5, 2010 |
| Hues of Silver Slush.. |
Restful smiles relinquished the pain,
The stories of hills draped in snow and rain
Typhoons marched into the scene,
Awe and mist blended within seem,
To conquer each other in an unrendered blow,
Blinded in wet mist shall never redeem,
The feeling in the Welsh scenery,
Perspiration triggered in anguish,
Yet the scene remains unredeemed as such,
Delving into hues of silver slush,
And she smirked in unreasoned rush,
The wind blew through the weather of lust,
And she smiled in a reasoned mush..
And she smiled in a reasoned mush..
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| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 7:57 AM |
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| Friday, April 30, 2010 |
| Render Exhibition.. |
Stories of foul murder play,
In the hearts of towns built in dismay,
Conquered in stealth and unbridled dread,
She smiled and talked of ancient heads,
Locked within vaults of oceanic tread,
Sounds of a blistering blaze grew,
In the summer of an autumn noon,
Arose from within monsters of the sea,
In promises of unearthly heap,
Making their way in trysts so steep,
Rising to tell stories with of no heed,
Of men who traded for the worldly seas,
Of conquests, bequests and unworldly pleas,
The horizon drew in a reddening streak,
Marvels fell to the earth so deep,
An end to the worst of mystiques veiled,
Her eyes unveiled before christening a dream.. |
| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 6:28 AM |
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| Monday, April 19, 2010 |
| Cherish lazy afternoons...An attempt at nothingness... |
No, the funny thing was not the settee,
That was beside the mint fish tea,
Malaysian coffee, no, it was Irish,
Poured in cups that were Finnish,
There was nothing to sit by,
To complain, I liked only the sky,
The freshly painted ceiling fettered,
Watching the ground black pepper,
It was an attempt at nothingness,
The stark sea and the blue ceiling,
But I tried and tried through heat,
To mix flint glass with fresh meat,
But it recurred, my artwork unfinished,
I dropped on the bed beneath.... |
| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 6:40 AM |
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| Tuesday, February 16, 2010 |
| In the Break of Dawn?? |
Through the phases of rebounding fights,
With cognitive conjecture the world surrenders,
There's the fight of a Man against a Nation,
And the news of the jurors comes from far,
The battle is far from imminent,
Yet survivors from the east come to fight,
In anguish they fall to the Gods of Amen,
Not that there's nothing to look forward to then ,
She runs into the temples of Ra,
Sounding sorrows from her Sunday vow,
The man does come, wailing for her,
Knights surmounted on dunes surpassed,
A whisk, a push, a fall, a call,
The world fell unto a felted disgrace,
He died, she died...
Who should tell them the war had only just begun! |
| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 7:29 AM |
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| Thursday, December 17, 2009 |
| The Penchant of Rendition |
The Story of an event lay,
In the fog of a sublime day.
Restfully the events unfold,
Through days, time and ages manifold.
So the day begins,
In the vigor of seasons,
And hues of Espanol,
Indeed the setting is such,
And the world is rather mush,
The pennyreal is clearly made,
The wry air seems to prevail,
The tale of the king reclaims,
The anguish of his mighty days,
So, there is nothing to hold today,
As there was nothing in hold that day..
The Rendition ended in a funny way,
And the king continued to hail the Historic day. |
| posted by bereaved vendetta @ 8:48 AM |
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| A strange medley of what I can give the world of my greatest possession, creative writing. |
| About Me |
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Name: bereaved vendetta
About Me: Optically, subjectively, and figuratively: EQUIVALENT Focal plane....
See my complete profile
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