Distant Love - Poem by THEODORE MOSLEY
Falling from the grace of true love, the hearts of the land are compromised without dissimulations.
Grieving in the night because the flame of love has drowned in sheets bewailing for romance to bloom.
No longer considered worthy of hands to hold, tears are met with domestic struggles of innocence.
Searching for ways to infiltrate the fallow grounds of life, love is blinded by riches of collateral flights.
Settling for camouflages of filthy lucre and dreams of rehearsed stardom, love escapes the truth of life.
Without the heart of flesh, the fallow grounds of hardness have subdued the eyes of collapsed whispers.
Tainted with the demonic answers of haughtiness, the glow of angels wings are hidden in treasures of lies.
The passions of nights are engraved in the stones of manipulations to caress the kisses of broken time.
Singing for plausible corrections, the notes of love are drowning in paradise with unfamiliar tunes.
Holding the days of summer when smiles are forever, the hearts of wonder are eclipsed with darkness.
Seeking a revival of love the stones of wickedness flow within the canal of Venice with harps playing.
The heartbeat of the flesh is calling for winds of romance to entwine the Milky Way; suppression is heard.
Snowfalls of distant love have the glaciers of Antarctica freefalling into fires of unclaimed treasures.
Caught within the lava of lies the eruption is heard in the valley of hope; dreams are extinguished for love.
When the arrow of serenading is heard in the night, the devotion of two is cascading into an abyss.
The silence of her walk has the majestic sound of lightning craving the clouds for water to explore.
With the eyes of love thunder collapses into her smile; corruption dances with lust to exhale the truth.
Forbidden to love Juliet expires in love; love thou art inescapable, heart thou has asphyxiated me with breath unknown.
Ways of love has terrorized me from the body of my truth, allowing emptiness from another to conceal me.
Insightful demons lifted the freedom of passions to heights of unknown fruits produced in Wayward Pines.
My distant love caressed me with dreams of angelic thoughts; my distant love placed the stars in my eyes.
The wonderland of my distant love is an oasis of mirages, cultivated in my mind of hidden confiscated love.
Distant love is my awareness of me flowing from the sea of my prison produced in me from infancy.
Written by Theodore Mosley
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