Thursday, 5 January 2012
Elements of nature
Ice sculptures in the daylight
Glitter
Ideal
Like frosted jewels of perfection.
Glacier sinews that seem
To make a man.
Impenetrable silhouette, so blinding
Dazzling in the glare -
Wide smiles in straight rows
Shining like pearls of glass
Cold amd fixed, and beautiful
Enough to warm your heart.
But how the form of beauty, love
It wanes, it melts away.
And in the dispelling twilight air
The heart of brittle things is
crystal clear
Holding nothing of matter.
Shrinking in a puddle of virtues,
Deformed and much less than it was
Or perhaps than it seemed
Standing in the dark of night
So cold and sharp, untouchable
A jagged edge, as bitter, chilled
As winter
Piercing the world like an icicle.
There is a quiet charm
Unsure of itself, but
Firm and unwavering.
Almond eyes are warm
Like the bough
Of the oak tree
Where the sun has touched its bark
Hot fingers tickling
Its rough skin -
Amd there you lay your head
In shade, in light
Day and night,
Summers hot, winters white,
Perhaps in time it chips or wears
And shedding leaf by leaf might
Make its branches bare
But never shall you fall
To lean upon the chest
Yes
Of the oak tree
Where you are bound to rest
A weary hopeful sigh
Never have tO hold your breath,
But dare to close your eyes.
Glitter
Ideal
Like frosted jewels of perfection.
Glacier sinews that seem
To make a man.
Impenetrable silhouette, so blinding
Dazzling in the glare -
Wide smiles in straight rows
Shining like pearls of glass
Cold amd fixed, and beautiful
Enough to warm your heart.
But how the form of beauty, love
It wanes, it melts away.
And in the dispelling twilight air
The heart of brittle things is
crystal clear
Holding nothing of matter.
Shrinking in a puddle of virtues,
Deformed and much less than it was
Or perhaps than it seemed
Standing in the dark of night
So cold and sharp, untouchable
A jagged edge, as bitter, chilled
As winter
Piercing the world like an icicle.
There is a quiet charm
Unsure of itself, but
Firm and unwavering.
Almond eyes are warm
Like the bough
Of the oak tree
Where the sun has touched its bark
Hot fingers tickling
Its rough skin -
Amd there you lay your head
In shade, in light
Day and night,
Summers hot, winters white,
Perhaps in time it chips or wears
And shedding leaf by leaf might
Make its branches bare
But never shall you fall
To lean upon the chest
Yes
Of the oak tree
Where you are bound to rest
A weary hopeful sigh
Never have tO hold your breath,
But dare to close your eyes.
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