The leaves roll in
by a spot by the lake,
over silver waters
they sail to our feet,
under a white-hot sun
where jet hair flows
through my hands; crushed silk.
Silk crushed,
like the sheets you left,
scarred, not unfeeling,
not caring for remorse,
not crying for more,
but waiting for retribution,
and the scent of your perfume.
They carry the wilted petals
silent, like a party in mourning,
amongst the fallen leaves
flowing back out to sea,
on a wave of distant voices;
echoes of a princess lost.
The voices of our forebearers,
though wise and indiscriminate,
are often false in their meaning;
For while their are many roses, many
shapes, sizes, colours and scents,
one by another name would never smell as sweet.
((Yeah... this isn't exactly a shining piece of work, but it's written now... so...))
I thought this was pretty sweetly written. Although, I can't help but feel that something was off with the rhythm. I am fan of imperfect rhyming though. I appreciate what you did here:
