Yakuza
Newbie
- Joined
- May 15, 2003
- Messages
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Hey guys,
Well I must admit that i like to write poetry. In this thread lets see what you guys come up with.
This poem I wrote awhile ago. Its also one of the most unique of my style.
A visitor in the night
The bells of the clock dropped,
a bitter tic and tock to my ear
Its broken hands, fanned a rhythm that played for me a
Requiem of fear.
My lips grew cold, I told my breath
and my lungs to hold,
No more than a whisper, to drip or spill
For my lips would split and the silence I’d kill.
I can hear him coming, strumming a scare
Made of the moon and the cold night air.
For under his chin, beneath a grin,
he plucked the strings of a burning violin,
Then I heard the tearing and slashing of its feet
Outside my door did breath not a man nor beast,
From its mouth did soak, chocking the air with black smoke
With words that fell rotten, without the scent of fresh hope.
My name disgorged, poured between its teeth,
And fluttered like a leaf, beneath my door,
He comes for me, see when its hands do need,
To collect the drops that dripped from me
A pool of every good deed.
But today I have none, done of nothing Worth fruit,
pruned my hands with idleness
That bore me form the root,
It spoke with grime, time to pay your
handsome fine, the tax I ask in full
Or forever,
you’ll be mine.
Then came his hands of burning coal,
that stole my breath
And stung my soul
Well I must admit that i like to write poetry. In this thread lets see what you guys come up with.
This poem I wrote awhile ago. Its also one of the most unique of my style.
A visitor in the night
The bells of the clock dropped,
a bitter tic and tock to my ear
Its broken hands, fanned a rhythm that played for me a
Requiem of fear.
My lips grew cold, I told my breath
and my lungs to hold,
No more than a whisper, to drip or spill
For my lips would split and the silence I’d kill.
I can hear him coming, strumming a scare
Made of the moon and the cold night air.
For under his chin, beneath a grin,
he plucked the strings of a burning violin,
Then I heard the tearing and slashing of its feet
Outside my door did breath not a man nor beast,
From its mouth did soak, chocking the air with black smoke
With words that fell rotten, without the scent of fresh hope.
My name disgorged, poured between its teeth,
And fluttered like a leaf, beneath my door,
He comes for me, see when its hands do need,
To collect the drops that dripped from me
A pool of every good deed.
But today I have none, done of nothing Worth fruit,
pruned my hands with idleness
That bore me form the root,
It spoke with grime, time to pay your
handsome fine, the tax I ask in full
Or forever,
you’ll be mine.
Then came his hands of burning coal,
that stole my breath
And stung my soul
