05-01-2013, 12:57 PM
Writing this, as well as joining this forum has been a late night impulse, and I have enjoyed it very much so far. I'm hoping I can turn this into a little outlet for myself. This is the first poem I have ever written.
Bang.
With the blinding light forward,
Leaving with sweet chords behind,
And mist whispering, the sigh,
And questions, always, more why,
And nothing left for the eye.
And the growing of the scent,
And the perfect figure set;
And the aroma deals the blow,
Once more lest my heart slow.
Tell me! Tell me! I must go on!
Through it when the sweat it swiftly drowns,
And pounds upon the lucid frown,
And pulls and pulls on what lie rest,
And spares no mercy for quiet left,
And stokes the fire with wood still wet,
And pays no mind to danger yet,
With more, much more to throw,
Once more lest my heart slow.
It ends with a bang, they say,
But not a sound.
Bang.
With the blinding light forward,
Leaving with sweet chords behind,
And mist whispering, the sigh,
And questions, always, more why,
And nothing left for the eye.
And the growing of the scent,
And the perfect figure set;
And the aroma deals the blow,
Once more lest my heart slow.
Tell me! Tell me! I must go on!
Through it when the sweat it swiftly drowns,
And pounds upon the lucid frown,
And pulls and pulls on what lie rest,
And spares no mercy for quiet left,
And stokes the fire with wood still wet,
And pays no mind to danger yet,
With more, much more to throw,
Once more lest my heart slow.
It ends with a bang, they say,
But not a sound.