We are what we make ourselves to be,
fragments of truth covered by lies,
the sum of all our parts are we,
no more than a fragile being that dies.
To die is to find release,
courage to end; to be or not to be,
at last my soul can be at peace,
but that is not my fate to be.
No my fate is one of healing,
though in fate I shan't believe,
why ask if I'm given to feeling,
if you know I've no feeling to give.
To love is to truly KNOW an other,
to love is to give completely,
the truth it is that holds all together,
the truth is what destroys absolutely.
The truth; my heart is torn asunder,
the crescent moon is where my killer is hiding,
like Apollo the laurel has graced this hunter,
my mind, my mind the hunter is reading.
What truth my mind shall not give up,
my heart; my heat it hungers to tell,
to sing, to shout, to deny or to give up,
to decide, to brood: to tell or not to tell.
The laurel, a sign from gods on high,
the crescent, a place where all is nothing,
to live, to die, to exist, to sigh,
to embrace, to welcome, it's all or nothing.
Please do forgive the poem, it was very late when I crafted it.
Try your hand at deciphering it, it ain't difficult; pretty standard stuff.
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2 comments:
Berd,
a masterpiece. you have to teach me how to write! :)
haha I got a bit lost at the end there Shah, my poetry still pretty much sucks though hehe
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