jordan eads Poems

The light is a colurful way to show pain.
Beautiful and soft, full of hurt none the less.
Tis days like colure that passion blooms as death.
And morbidness that blossoms into a rose of blood.
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To The Angel of Death:

Reaper of the dead
sent to gather all lost souls
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Do you ever hear the music...then wish you could share it with others? Do you feel it all around you, moving through you, tearing you apart? Do you hear every graceful note and wish you could write it down and capture its essence? Does music move you in ways no other thing can?
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