xarkle
01-23-2007, 09:55 PM
This is my first time posting on this site, and quite frankly, I am excited. I am excited to get actual criticism on my works. i did not know weather to include this as a poetic piece or a story, so i just picked here. give me some feedback. btw, i make up words sometimes.;)
This is It
Apollo’s conscience:
This is it, welcome home, I’ve brought along the sorrow.
To satiate the hunger, of the drunken that follow.
Its here, hear it now.
Welcome home to sorrow.
Long has the history past, in the eyes of the beholder. Flung deep into the sorrow of the wild temptress whore. The two of them one, once before, twice, long ago. It happens as before, but with him holding the bow. Cut down in their prime, the Temptress and Apollo. Through betrayal, through deceit, with tears in their wake. Laughing for joy, with pain at their feet. The truth blinds them, to the truth of the world. Holding on for dear life, broken, they follow.
Life in the eyes of the clueless,
The deaf, blind and dumb, filling their hearts with blind regret and despair.
The once fond lovers of internal injury, now struck down and falling over their edge. The fingers slip slightly down the palm of her hand, with a breath of the lion, form the lips of the con.
Apollo’s conscience:
Welcome…
Another song to sing, another life to lead, but the two will no longer be together on through. Because the deal is, that with the fire of the shadow, that the love will crash down, for dark in shadow.
The blind receiver Apollo, struck by the shoulder of the wild temptress whore. Form the bottom of her soul, her heart of the warn.
The tears and her fears,
The plots and his thoughts.
Culminate together, to leave that which is sought
Beneath all the bleeding, the doubt and the test.
Hanging over the edge, in her blood soken dress.
Hanging on the eyes of the beheld.
Their hands held together, but their eyes, they meld.
With two strokes of death and three strokes of life,
and the edge of her hand like the edge of the knife.
Cut through the shambles of the things held valid.
Take her away!
He can’t see without her, the drug she possesses.
The wild floating lust, of the male man consensus.
Blind to the glory, of what letting go can mean.
Comfort or affliction, yet remains to be seen.
They both start to pull, both ways, always, the hair of the beholder ripped off the shoulder. Leave it to be now, cast your shadow, your doubt,
The flesh burning fire, now aching to come out.
Apollo’s conscience:
She cut you, cut her then, it can be done.
Leaver her fore dead in the valley of sun. fall little woman, your the death of them all. It must be done to let the beheld stand tall.
The fingers slip, the eyes shine up.
Cast down a tear to end it, tie it up.
The bow not of life, but of death and deceit,
Fifth off his hands, but damage to his heart
Welcome home to sorrow, that which of depart.
This is It
Apollo’s conscience:
This is it, welcome home, I’ve brought along the sorrow.
To satiate the hunger, of the drunken that follow.
Its here, hear it now.
Welcome home to sorrow.
Long has the history past, in the eyes of the beholder. Flung deep into the sorrow of the wild temptress whore. The two of them one, once before, twice, long ago. It happens as before, but with him holding the bow. Cut down in their prime, the Temptress and Apollo. Through betrayal, through deceit, with tears in their wake. Laughing for joy, with pain at their feet. The truth blinds them, to the truth of the world. Holding on for dear life, broken, they follow.
Life in the eyes of the clueless,
The deaf, blind and dumb, filling their hearts with blind regret and despair.
The once fond lovers of internal injury, now struck down and falling over their edge. The fingers slip slightly down the palm of her hand, with a breath of the lion, form the lips of the con.
Apollo’s conscience:
Welcome…
Another song to sing, another life to lead, but the two will no longer be together on through. Because the deal is, that with the fire of the shadow, that the love will crash down, for dark in shadow.
The blind receiver Apollo, struck by the shoulder of the wild temptress whore. Form the bottom of her soul, her heart of the warn.
The tears and her fears,
The plots and his thoughts.
Culminate together, to leave that which is sought
Beneath all the bleeding, the doubt and the test.
Hanging over the edge, in her blood soken dress.
Hanging on the eyes of the beheld.
Their hands held together, but their eyes, they meld.
With two strokes of death and three strokes of life,
and the edge of her hand like the edge of the knife.
Cut through the shambles of the things held valid.
Take her away!
He can’t see without her, the drug she possesses.
The wild floating lust, of the male man consensus.
Blind to the glory, of what letting go can mean.
Comfort or affliction, yet remains to be seen.
They both start to pull, both ways, always, the hair of the beholder ripped off the shoulder. Leave it to be now, cast your shadow, your doubt,
The flesh burning fire, now aching to come out.
Apollo’s conscience:
She cut you, cut her then, it can be done.
Leaver her fore dead in the valley of sun. fall little woman, your the death of them all. It must be done to let the beheld stand tall.
The fingers slip, the eyes shine up.
Cast down a tear to end it, tie it up.
The bow not of life, but of death and deceit,
Fifth off his hands, but damage to his heart
Welcome home to sorrow, that which of depart.