What of fate would these hands know,
lines etched in what – Flesh
and nothing more.
Court of Lions
Where poetry is roared like the sceptre of a king.
Where poetry is roared like the sceptre of a king.
What of fate would these hands know,
lines etched in what – Flesh
and nothing more.
Rafael
Kaosar (Raatkiranii)
Abdur Rahman
tielansari
danielabdalhayymoore
Seth
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June 2, 2009 at 7:36 pm
Pierre
And fate says of flesh what, when he, through the sun’s eye gazes his lines?
Perhaps flesh is a wanderer, roaming the midnight sky.
Perhaps flesh is an eternal becoming, etching in the sands of time.
And the sands lay in wait, for the waves to tend their wounds in rhythmic hymns.
There, where the sun ever bodes a welcoming farewell to he whose waking hours are but a midnight dream full of giggles and play, who as he, in awe and wonder harnesses the beloved’s face in his glass of wine, suddenly, closes his eyes, and the sun, whose beams are eternal, extends her arms one last time to bathe him, help him embrace in his steps the furthest, as time, the eternal conqueror, conquers the kingdom of his heart.
Fate speaks not in riddles, but us, in our play, devise riddles for our minds to prey,
As such poetry is seduced and riddled as she echoes our face.