Dank the deep.
It seeps what some wept.
Bloodied were the eyes of few,
I held tight to all I knew.
A soul-less creature of that I was.
I am! A thing!
That is still missing!!
That is still missing!!
No Heart; Emotions trade upon the Winds of what is made.
Left so quickly.
Not one human thought.
What would happen? If her Soul was bought?
Terror filled my lacking of such a crime.
Demands were made, they were not mine.
Anger stilled in front of what deprives thee now.
What a thought to think today.
I have read, 10th Grade, are Graduates made.
To keep it simple in words, not Rote:
'A mechanical routine'
Repetition without understanding.
Compare this to,
"The roar of the surf."
A Note will carry a tune.
If not; A deaf, mute you are.
For then:
It may be a car that can deliver such rumblings from afar.
It may be a car that can deliver such rumblings from afar.
For "Hope" in general should just be.
No humbling or begging; Presumably.
Knod off these notions.
For they must be only old ideas: "I seethe."
Since Hope of Sense is crumbling.
The fence of "Worldly Deeds,"
obligations which we need,
for men to stand, not plead.
It is leaning on me,
to speak of what is so unheavenly.
Authors of speech and say.
Tweet each other every day.
As words become symbols and format is fumbling,
our languages are lost to
"The Ages Of Shame"
Belief in Rosicrucianism will not be to blame.
~
"DEATH, so called, is a thing that makes men weep,
and yet a third of life is passed in sleep."
BYRON