The Struggle We Hold
Perhaps His smile and tender tone,
Were all that I imagined alone.
Now that all the spells have grimly gone,
Am I truly left out, all on my own?
Ah! Prone, prone is truly my soul,
but I am distant here, lonely and cold.
I am usually strong, but this solitude here is too bold.
I have always been awake with truth, and this,
I cannot fold.
Betwixt the lines of literature,
are the lessons any man may need, of vision.
But through the keyhole of an Author so dear,
lost in His dreams your thoughts will fear.
For reality, is a grim one where the beauty spoken of,
isn't attainable to the commoner,
but perhaps only, to a dreamer.
"Yet, who are you?"
And who is He to see,
Where the pity of insanity blows one's identity,
Until nor the reality nor the dreamt beauty
Can any longer transpire adequately,
The pain and joy of the struggle we hold,
to appreciate a moment of gold.
Were all that I imagined alone.
Now that all the spells have grimly gone,
Am I truly left out, all on my own?
Ah! Prone, prone is truly my soul,
but I am distant here, lonely and cold.
I am usually strong, but this solitude here is too bold.
I have always been awake with truth, and this,
I cannot fold.
Betwixt the lines of literature,
are the lessons any man may need, of vision.
But through the keyhole of an Author so dear,
lost in His dreams your thoughts will fear.
For reality, is a grim one where the beauty spoken of,
isn't attainable to the commoner,
but perhaps only, to a dreamer.
"Yet, who are you?"
And who is He to see,
Where the pity of insanity blows one's identity,
Until nor the reality nor the dreamt beauty
Can any longer transpire adequately,
The pain and joy of the struggle we hold,
to appreciate a moment of gold.