Post by the_who on Dec 4, 2008 20:39:16 GMT -5
Here dreamers may rest their glowing eyes
Misted and broken
The gentle poet gazes up into the shade of their fantasy
A shade that only fantasy can provide
Colors ripple upon the tall providers above
Here glimmering emerald grassland
Plummet into pits of a serene gold caynon
Then shimmer into the sea of never ending turqoise
Only to lead into a black heart at the center
Dark and elegant like the heavens themselves
These lands are split into narrow veins
Dipping off long white stalks
Like the trail of a shooting-star
Many of these flamboyant stalks are grouped
Sagging to skim into the air below
These, my friends, these are the sacred forests
Of the peacock's feathers
The poet may rest under these
And find inspiration once more
Even in the heart of a bleak city
Where the air is musky and sepia
The poet can close their eyes
Drifting into a silent fantasy land
Of emerald grassland, gold canyons, turqoise oceans
And pitch black skys
(For those who live in the city, I can not begin to express how much more beautiful country black skys are. Not that I always get that advantage, seeing how my neighborhood is lit up like a football-feild, but If I were to take a drive on a few roads not too far, you'd swear it's so dark you can almost touch space itself, can almost breathe in a world that humans never stepped foot into. And that's what peacock feathers remind me of - the untouched lands, which are now, saddly, only fantasy. Thus, I keep a bunch of peakcock feathers in a vase in my room.
And yes, I write like I live in a city because, hell, that's how I feel sometimes with all these frickin 'advances' in my more rural area. Sucks when the rural area begins to become urban. You just can't get away from humanity anymore, folks.)
Misted and broken
The gentle poet gazes up into the shade of their fantasy
A shade that only fantasy can provide
Colors ripple upon the tall providers above
Here glimmering emerald grassland
Plummet into pits of a serene gold caynon
Then shimmer into the sea of never ending turqoise
Only to lead into a black heart at the center
Dark and elegant like the heavens themselves
These lands are split into narrow veins
Dipping off long white stalks
Like the trail of a shooting-star
Many of these flamboyant stalks are grouped
Sagging to skim into the air below
These, my friends, these are the sacred forests
Of the peacock's feathers
The poet may rest under these
And find inspiration once more
Even in the heart of a bleak city
Where the air is musky and sepia
The poet can close their eyes
Drifting into a silent fantasy land
Of emerald grassland, gold canyons, turqoise oceans
And pitch black skys
(For those who live in the city, I can not begin to express how much more beautiful country black skys are. Not that I always get that advantage, seeing how my neighborhood is lit up like a football-feild, but If I were to take a drive on a few roads not too far, you'd swear it's so dark you can almost touch space itself, can almost breathe in a world that humans never stepped foot into. And that's what peacock feathers remind me of - the untouched lands, which are now, saddly, only fantasy. Thus, I keep a bunch of peakcock feathers in a vase in my room.
And yes, I write like I live in a city because, hell, that's how I feel sometimes with all these frickin 'advances' in my more rural area. Sucks when the rural area begins to become urban. You just can't get away from humanity anymore, folks.)