M.H. Fowler

M.H. Fowler Poems

What truths are yet learned about one's self?
Are they past edges of the fleeting dream,
A long lost glance atop the mountain's peak,
That seeing would allow us on the shelf,

We are awoken from timeless slumber
And then drug upon this remotest shore.
Stranded from that encompassing number
That is once again counted past the door.

This rough river rides on towards the shore,
Peace silences her song forevermore.
The sands of that coast accept her lost silt,
Her tears freed from overflowing guilt.

Must we turn our backs away
From the errant heat of day,
To only face frigid end,
When the waves no longer scend.

It is often said that this world
Will end in fire or in ice.
The truth already lies, unfurled,
In the design of each device.

Scream your name deep into the silent storm.
Dreams fade not by being overworn;
They only fade when held inside,
Never given chance to ride,

Few have seen the sacred veils of youth,
Unfazed in its lurid gaze and still,
Weary of nothing an old man will.

To the prophets that stride along their paths,
All steps taken are ones of callous wrath.
Tears of anger birthed from sorrowful bend,
The mist on the ferns; dawn cannot defend.

Children sitting on a porch looking outward
Onto a trail stretching into the vast unknown.
Quaint hands molding the edges of a memory,
Its features taking the shape of the soul.

Will darkness cease when the lights of heaven break
Through the clouds of agony to find me there.
Fully may he recede in the mirror while I stake
My claim on the accelerator and stare

Bury me o time deep in graves of the past
And accompany me past the gates of dawn.
Heaven's hand ferry me to a worthwhile caste;
Risen in eternity's apex when I respawn.

Subdued in my soul my darkest secrets sleep
And dream of the unbecoming they would see
Unraveled before me as oceans deep.
I hope that on my dawn of death I can free

There is a dark cloud overtop my soul
Raging with the destructive force of Zeus:
Pouring down a sinful torrent which stole
Away my sunshine; so what is the use

I have long dreamed of greatness:
(who has not) .

But originally,

Tread softly when your eyes follow my path.
I have abandoned landmines in the lines.

But in all seriousness...

Was Hunter—
Now Gift of God
Not much Hunt Bird;
Boy too Restless.

Sleep calm still secrets which darken my dreams
Threatening to break free to my light of hope.
Till ‘gain we speak when next the moonlight gleams,
I shall acclimate to this rising slope

To all the words spoken,
And beyond that,
To all the chemical reactions, all the forces, all which underlies,
How many millions made each word?

(copy the text, and center it in word)

I almost screwed all I have done a few days back; I was preparing to proceed to my fade to black.
As an autistic artist, especially, has no place; but then I saw the tears falling down her face.

O to that phrase I've heard about the eyes:
That their depth makes them windows to the soul…
Of you I ask if someday my sole soul flies
Could signing wings rescind my sinful scroll?

The Best Poem Of M.H. Fowler

The Seam Of Memory

What truths are yet learned about one's self?
Are they past edges of the fleeting dream,
A long lost glance atop the mountain's peak,
That seeing would allow us on the shelf,
Pages long outside our hand's extreme.
When we were children in that mystique,
Of the wonders inherent to the inner self,
The nature of being rests on the seam,
Stitching past to present, however weak;
Memory does seem the thread we seek.

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