Writing: Poetry

Forgotten Life

Silent, the towers ring no bells, an old wooden hay wagons sits petrified abandoned in place.

No life, no children laughing in the streets, no wives crying out for their wayward husbands.

Silent the town sits, her voice muted, what horrors lay within none can tell, for none remained.

Once colorful hues of red terraced roofs, of cerulean walls, of purple sashes and yellow fences.

Silent the colors are now, faded, peeled, cracked exposing the wood to the elements, to mildew blackness

Not even the ghosts can speak out in this realm, this land of forgotten breath, claimed by demons

Silent, the wind blows through whipping up the dust into devils, yet silence envelopes, no sounds

Upon the hill, overlooking the polished mirror water below reflecting treachery, coldness forbidding. 

Silent the time passes on, forgetting the town, the people, the events that transpired that dark night.

So long ago when the fragrant trees stood blocking the sun, where flowers threw out invitations

Silent the trees stand dead gnarled bleached wood, silent the flowers shriveled, the ground barren

The poison of evil, of vile acts man commits on man, kindled by the fire of hate, of intolerance, of injustice

Silent the town stands, reminder to all, the failure of man, the downfall of humanity the power of demonic forces

Peacock

Does anyone look into the eyes of the peacock, the ovals of iridescent blue, greens and gold?

Eyes that shimmer, feathers quivering throwing out his invitation to meet, irresistible to ignore

Proudly he sands there, the neck tall, tail of eyes on fire displayed for all the peahens to see

From deep inside he lets forth a shriek, a scream commanding all to come hither to his call ‘Look at me! ‘Look at my glory!’”

Then with his tail raised high, his chest puffed out he haughty prances back and forth along the cobblestone path  

Arrogant that he came from paradise, Eden, painted by the hand of God himself, the eyes of the soul set forth upon his tail

Those eyes, those secrets of the painter’s hand, the embroider of our lives, to those false eyes we are drawn

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