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literature
It is the Darkness
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Literature Text
It is the darkness that cumulates, coils and collects
At the edge of the visible light; a haven in the night,
Never quite visible, always tangible. Always pulling
On the fraying edges of the mind’s tapestry that one day,
As all things must, will unravel, unwind, and remain unfinished.
It is death’s running chase that reveals ones innermost self.
There is the rain and the moon and the dark stormy clouds
And these are evocative of their master. They’re the painter’s stroke,
The craftsman’s signature style, and above all else,
They are the Roman’s requiem, solemn and persistent,
Fashioning a loose, straightforward arrangement of ominous drums,
Strong and defiant, yet quavering uncertainly in the face of painful realisations.
Death’s touch is surely the softest. They say love is a flower,
Soft and delicate, beautifully rare. But Death, Death is all these things,
Calling you softly “come in from the cold”, enfolding you gently in its rare velvet folds.
It is Death that brings peace from the troubles of the earth.
Love can do little more than push the wolves from the door.
The wolves will inevitably return, and when they do, you will wish for Death,
You will hear the raven’s message and the owl’s wise counsel,
But it will be too late; you’ll have left nought but hate.
At the edge of the visible light; a haven in the night,
Never quite visible, always tangible. Always pulling
On the fraying edges of the mind’s tapestry that one day,
As all things must, will unravel, unwind, and remain unfinished.
It is death’s running chase that reveals ones innermost self.
There is the rain and the moon and the dark stormy clouds
And these are evocative of their master. They’re the painter’s stroke,
The craftsman’s signature style, and above all else,
They are the Roman’s requiem, solemn and persistent,
Fashioning a loose, straightforward arrangement of ominous drums,
Strong and defiant, yet quavering uncertainly in the face of painful realisations.
Death’s touch is surely the softest. They say love is a flower,
Soft and delicate, beautifully rare. But Death, Death is all these things,
Calling you softly “come in from the cold”, enfolding you gently in its rare velvet folds.
It is Death that brings peace from the troubles of the earth.
Love can do little more than push the wolves from the door.
The wolves will inevitably return, and when they do, you will wish for Death,
You will hear the raven’s message and the owl’s wise counsel,
But it will be too late; you’ll have left nought but hate.
I was in a cheery mood XD Please feel free to comment, and check out my other poems!
© 2012 - 2024 Jacoooify
Comments5
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I've always liked the idea that death is a comfort. Then again, I am a bit in love with suicidal ideation and romantic tragedies.