It | The Art of Poetry | Page 1

I can't understand my language of mind,
a metronome only tuned to say what'll rhyme..
But if I paint and design, and portray it in writing?
I could truly obsess putting a play on with lighting..
so if you're a fan of my riddles, I'll put a dance in the middle
It'll be simple, seeing her in a old-fashioned white dress,
And when she pauses?.. it's still, cold with dead silence,
then music will play, her moves will relay a soothing disdain,
an act in the rain, her dancing will say, she's abused in a place
only few choose to relate with, then it's a queue to her face,
a look of fear, she's shocked, something's loose in the cage,
it creeps and she crawls, you witness; she ain't looking away,
screams bellow out, music remains, it's one on one
but two 'verses' hate, tonight a murder takes place..
wonder sparks a lovers art..who will remain...?
Initially, gazing envisioning mazes, you'd think 'it's a shame',
ink in the play's unknowingly digging her grave as 'it' slithers away!
then heavenly birds sent to be heard perplex with their words;
dissecting the verses mentioning purging to deadly divergence,
it mentions she's worthless, efforts are worthless, death is for certain,
they mention directions, a message confessing they sent it,
it's vexing, it's hectic, her venom is endless, the metal is tepid,
coursing in veins, the chorus is changing, forlornly she paces,
her Lord is awaiting with joy, celebrations, as the chords separated
with every turn, memory burns with a dance in'r wastelands,
winding down, sounds surround, you've figured she's tainted,
she stops, gripping her face in crystalline cages,
two tick tocks.. Just give it a twist and replay.
'It's just a music box...
I wonder what you had thought?

#It