Keen as the bullet so near, it deepens to the beat of the bombs. The hallow voice among the hallway telling us to just believe for once. But our faith is like the rain it only seems to be seen when we don't want it. But the rain can puddle up into something bigger. Our faith just explodes and goes into the drainage we call our souls. Only reappears when it seems like the smallest dropp could save us.
A scent hovering above, its tale written in the feather's of an eagle. The eagle goes through pain just to explain a moment of one's life. But soon the eagle will die and all that will remain are the old feathers and the smell. But a scent and memories won't bring back the whole image. So we must savor the moment for the time it exists. Much like the rain a moment can brighten or darken your day. Rain can inspire but all a memory can do is drive you into a wall of doubt and depression.
There are music notes on the skin, tattooed with blood of the slaves. Worked to the bone to make us smile. We need to take lives to make us live. A piano made of children's bones with teeth as keys. Each note sings the song of the fallen and wasted. Each note whispers a reason to blame our own and each speck of dust makes us blame ourselves.
A stone tumbles across a field of roses, admiring the feeling of love. Even through its skin is made of stone it still feels as if it had a soul. Love will do that; lift you up just to dropp you. But more then the cradle will fall. Your mind, the soul and skin will be stained from it. No poison could erase the scars. No knife could crave that skin. It is your heart, it remains the only part of your body that can only break and bleed but not show it. Your heart can break, well after it stops beating. Snow piled love notes with hearts on the last letter of the lover's name. Tear stained letters with these words in blood 'I love you'.....each burns the same as the rest. If you set flame to a love letter it crumbles just as much as a break-up letter....but a make-up letter...you can hear forgotten moments and tears cry out to tell the burner to stop. Stop and rewind and record a new thought. You have a second chance take it and run. But our hearts are stale, cold and stale. And it bears repeating the moment when all wings burn and we fall just to rise with scars on our heart and soul. But we travel the trail and don't show regret. But tell me this...would you turn around? Would you fight to save her? Would you bite the bullet to keep you and her together? Or would you let it through and watch her fall?
Noon awakens the mother as the child sleeps in. life moves at its own speed but to a child a year can last a decade. A memory can span over years and years of doubt and remain as beautiful as when it happened.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem