Empty words and hollow phylactery.
Life, there is no purpose to it,
There is not purpose to this parchment.
Stain, i'm told, colours character,
beauty, pristine debilitating
My pen dare not smear with splatter.
Yet i succumb to the voice of the sinister,
For the universe tends towards chaos.
Ere, i present to you my disturbed space,
To wittness the ravages of disgrace,
Here she lies wordless and tainted,
My virgin, violated.
There is nothing more dibilitating than an empty canvas staring back at you saying ,"you can't paint a thing!" . - Van Gogh (not sure)
we could fly, but we have to touch the ground again. Cant deny nature s laws. Can we?
Visit Neha
Donno what prompted that comment. Are you saying that the poem started off really well and then triped over itself or did it make u so high that going back to reality was a really rude shock... wait wait, i just figured it out: its to console me abt how i regret giving in and posting here :D.I'm touched :).unfortunately i have to disagree. We could fly and if we try hard enough and are persistant enough we could break free of the chains of gravity. But the question is... are we really ready to leave the illusion of control and certitude of hitting hard earth in exchange for floating around helplessly in the lawless expanse of outerspace?