A page as vacant as the mind
deprived of fruit from passion's seed,
As empty as the wedding bells
that toll of blind aligning greed.
And hungry like the cratered moon
a fractured construct incomplete,
Yet watchful like the waiting owl
upon its brambled, branching seat.
As patterned as a curtain closed
though life revealed should it be drawn,
But on its own it can't be free
never opened, only torn.
So lonely like the winter rose
that stands alone in fields of white,
Through loves desertion it's petals gone
it knows it won't survive the night.
And those outside who still believe
that every hole will be filled in,
That happiness shares its dwelling place
with each and every living thing.
I sometimes wonder if that's the case.
And so unsure as what to think,
For like a blank page I have been,
And I'm still searching for my ink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
wow, great job! if this poem is any indication, you're an awesome writer, and i hope you post more here soon. again, great job!