Biography of Julius Glasthal
I'm almost sixteen and aspiring to become a writer. I started writing poetry in the ninth grade.
Julius Glasthal Poems
Silk Soaked In Blood
Resting under elms, burning rodents scurry The apparition slowly follows the trail of blood. To the body of the mother to the roses. On the verge of the end of sufferance,
A Snowy Afternoon
I sit and gaze at the legal white powder that brings a smile to our children's faces. I gaze and notice how quiet the town can get when that first flake collapsed on the concrete.
The Devil's Game
Black shadow broke the gust, left nothing but ash and dust. Moths fly from the debris, leaving everything behind as they flee.
Inside the abattoir we reside Hanging from the hooks they supplied We don't realize the purpose Will this be the last of the worst?
To Kill, Then Survive The Guilt
He leans over to witness his deed. Murder was accomplished because of his greed. Will he stay or will he leave?
To approach such an army with curiosity, shot down no questions asked. To approach such a god with velocity, left breathless with so many questions to ask.
Can'T Seem To Keep Her
Tried and tried to hold on for as long as possible. To have her for all of time. To live and die as one. But I can't seem to keep her. Days and days have gone by
The King's Rule
Shake free from the bloodcurdling shackles. The king's selfish rule. All who disobey shall face the after life faster than the speed of rumor.
She waits for what will land, scared they sleep. Hiding in the sand. Secretly hide ourselves for the antics we surprize. We use up what ever they send, what ever arrives.
Hold the petals of the bloody rose. Scars beneath the cuts where the thorns has stricken the flesh. Hear the laughs of blinded children,
Love: Something So Cold
Find the blood on the ceiling of our love. To end, the mistake I made. For ever being the one that kept your heart. I loved
Silk Soaked In Blood
Resting under elms, burning rodents scurry
The apparition slowly follows the trail of blood.
To the body of the mother to the roses.
On the verge of the end of sufferance,
She cried for the ravens, she cried for the crows.
Autumn has eaten the trees, the dying leaves
float as for gravity has sinked its teeth into the
exterior of its brown coating.