Here, where the world is quiet, Here, where all trouble seems Dead winds' and spent waves' riot In doubtful dreams of dreams; I watch the green field growing For reaping folk and sowing, For harvest time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams. I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep Of what may come hereafter No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine, But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine, Pale beds of blowing rushes Where no leaf blooms or blushes, Save this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.
so, here are a couple more old poems i dug up and decided to post. the first is one that came out of a period of intense creativity (ah if only i had the time nowadays). the second was a creative writing assignment that i never got around to finishing, so i apologize if the end is a bit abrupt. once again, any feedback is greatly appreciated :).
i dream in broad daylight of an old front porch swing where i sit cradling my guitar singing you a song while your paintbrush splashes sunbeams across my upturned face
paint drips in rainbow rivulets down your sun-kissed skin your eyes are filled with...