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Submit your work, meet writers and drop the. Become a member. Continue reading All Together by Yourself Oct I'm Drifting.
You say that you love me But I'm drifting You say that you need me But I'm drifting You say so many things But I'm difting Away from you On the muscles of waves Salt in my eyes sting like watery pins Cause I'm drifting Outside your embrace, sun burns skin Cause I'm drifting I'm sickend by my own love for you Cause I'm drifting The current is merciless My esophagus has it's own tide I'm lost in a desert of continuos motion without an ore or sail I can see you no more unless you save me from drifting outside your life outside your heart outside of your bedroom door Just when I'm about to let go The light house begins to show You say the words That keep me from drifting You say them so sweet and so kind They keep me from drifting But I come to with the painful experiences I've had with you And all I want to do Is continue to drift away from you too.
Mariah Langton May I can feel myself drifting Drifting away from the world and reality, Drifting away from all the happiness Drifting I can feel myself drifting. Empty space surrounds me, it swallows me whole.
I feel my breath start to slow, I feel tears pricking at my eyes. I can feel myself drifting Drifting. AvengingPoet Sep Spinning, Drifting. CP May Henry Wworth Longfellow. Gwen Pimentel May Drift Noun A slow and gradual movement or change from one place, condition, etc. Or should I hold on, on this one-sided stretched rubberband of ours and try to fix something that might not even be broken in your eyes. Vanessa Escopin Mar Drifting away like the clouds in the sky Drifting away like the leaves on the ground Drifting away like those planes in the sky Drifting away like the raindrops on leaves Drifting away like the light in the dark Drifting away the girl whom once became their friend Drifting away the woman who's strong but gone weak She's drifting away Drifting away from everyone.
She's once so strong but everyone breaks her.
Gone is the girl. Ron Sanders Feb There is a gorge, its walls shattered by cold; a once-green thing that, in dying, birthed a thousand aching fissures. It works its jagged way downhill, round ragged rifts and drifts until it comes upon a little frosted wood.
There is a wood, an island locked in ice.
Within this wood the gorge descends. It wanders and it wends; it brakes and all but ends outside a clearing wet with sun. And there, forking, its bent and broken arms embrace a strange, enchanted glade. There is a glade. And in this glade the black bears sleep, though salmon leap fat between falls. Here the field mouse draws no shadow, the eagle seeks no prey; they spend their while caressed by rays, and halcyon days are they. Here rabbit and fawn may linger, no longer need they flee. For in this timeless, taintless space, the Wild has ceased to be. Outside the glade are shadow and prey, are ice and naked death.
There blood may run freely. There the eagle, that thief, is a righteous savage, a noble fiend.
But once in the glade he is dove, and has no taste for blood, running freely or otherwise. And in this glade there nests a pool: a dazzling, blue-and-silver jewel; profoundly deep, pristinely clear. All who sip find solace here, for this is the Eye of Being. They lap in peace, assuming blear, not knowing it is seeing. And ever thus this pool shall peer: a silent seer, reflecting on—all that Is, and all Beyond. Outside the glade there lies a world where rivers ever run, where ghastly calves in random file revile a bitter sun. East, the day is born in mist. West she dies: her rest, the deep.
And North…North the Earth lies mute. Wind gnaws her hide, wind wracks her dreams. Wind screams like a flute in her white, white sleep. But in the glade are tall, stately grasses, sunning raptly, spinning lore. In this wise the glade weaves its word, airs its views. They do not wither with fall, for in the glade there is no fall. They do not bind or wilt or brown—they gesture, spreading the mood, the mind; conveying, indeed, the very soul of the glade.
As ever they have, as they shall evermore. Bees do not hum here; they sing. They fatten the dream. Mellow and round are the timbres they sound, sweet is the music they bring. Birds do not sing here—they play. They carry the theme. Dulcet and warm are the strains they perform. Gifted musicians are they. All in the glade are virtuosi. They were born to create. Melody, harmony, meter…are innate. Now the performance is lively and bright, now full, now almost still. And yet…there was a day, long ago in a dream, when this ongoing opus was torn.
And on that day so the lullaby goes the wind brought a scream, and Dissonance was born. There was a noise. Moose tensed, their coffee eyes narrowed, their patient brows creased.
Bees mauled the tempo, birds lost their place. There was a crash, and a shriek, and a naked, bleeding beast burst stinking through the fern, fell stumbling on its face. Moose scattered: unheard of. Sheep brawled, geese burst out of rhyme. The symphony, forever endeavored to soar sublime, fluttered, plunged, and, for all of a measure, ceased. The pool was appalled…what manner brute—what kind of monster was this?
Furless flank to forelimb, hide obscured by blood. As for its face…it had no face; only a look: of shock frozen in time, of horror in amber. A deep welling rift ran temple to chin, halving the mask, caving it in. Such a grievous wound…the pool watched it stagger, on two legs and four, thrashing about till it came to a rise. There it labored for air, wiped the blood from its eyes, lashed at illusion, looked wildly round. Beholding the pool, the beast tumbled down. And there this wretch plunged his thirst, drank his fill, fell back on his haunches.Love drifting away poems
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Love And The Light That Shimmers