The Empyrean Sphere

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Another, written back in February. Enjoy.


Isolated for a little while
Cold colored waterfalls falling through streams of amber hair and eyes
Only to hit the ground again and evaporate into the atmosphere
And start all over again - because cycles always repeat themselves,
And balances are never upset.

Waiting, waiting like a timer preparing to go off
Each second ticking by in loud reverberations
Of the same over exposed tones that rise up
And float and wait until the time they stop,
And all the small chains break with echoing snaps.

Dropped against concrete walls, beads of perspiration
Reflecting memories of hours spent smashed against them
Muffling screams through broken jaws, all lies that go unnoticed
By the figures that wrap themselves around everyday thoughts
And never let them go, at least not in waking life.

Wrap these abberrations around every single cell inside your body, let them fill you with electricity,
Use them to close off the thousand stretchs of infinity that lie between everything you need to know
And everything you need to forget. And once you fill in the blanks,
Erase the greens and browns and blacks from your world
And just be filled with sky.
You're just an empty cage girl if you kill the bird.




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Gender Female
Points 890
Reviews 176
Another no commenter!
Nice imagery...It's pretty. Almost flawless flow..except for the end stanza which seems to get into a muddle. Instead, i think it should be written out like this..
Wrap these abberrations around every single cell inside your body,
let them fill you with electricity.
Use them to close off the thousand stretchs of infinity
that lie between everything you need to know
And everything you need to forget.
And once you fill in the blanks,
Erase the greens and browns and blacks from your world
And just be filled with sky.


then it flows better, or at least I think so. Anyway, really good work. I like it a lot.
"Sometimes we see a cloud that's dragonish,
A vapour sometimes like a bear or lion,
A towered citadel, a pendant rock,
A forked mountain, or blue promontory,
With trees upon't that nod unto the world,And mock our eyes with air.."



'This must be Thursday,' said Arthur to himself, sinking low over his beer. 'I never could get the hang of Thursdays.'
— Douglas Adams, The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy