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More from ~Pencil-Wolf

These Mysteries of Life I Hold DearTime seems to pass by slowly,
Yet goes by in an instant.
A simple blink of an eye,
And eternity is gone.
The days pass like falling
Snow
With the hours like days,
Minutes like hours,
Days like months,
Months like years.
It seems so very
Very
Long ago,
Yet not lot at all,
That we were there.
There,
The universe stretches and bows
And time ripples like an ocean of worms
Nights grow longer,
My days grow shorter,
And suddenly I found myself
Reading till too early in the morning
And pondering over words that seem to have depth,
With candle light casting
Dark shadows over
Darker walls--
My little sanctuary
Where time is a living being;
Where Death holds no power,
And if so,
Life holds more.
ReflectionsI just thought it better of me
To not look into a mirror
For fear of what I would find.
Because the butt end of poetry belongs
To those who eat their hearts out
As if it would make any
Difference as to what I would think of them.
Words Sew Our Lips TogetherDid you know
That
Pristine white
And bits
That
No one
Dared to love
Have collided?
Do not fear
Because
Love of such
Broken things
Is a broken metaphor
Like a broken record
That drones on in the night
Without a hand to stop it
And such is the way
Our eyes gaze around a room,
To search for these things that
We have yet to explain

Our hands are tied,
And metaphors strangle our cooing lips
Yet our hearts sing

Sometimes our world revolves
Upon things better left
Unsaid.
A Grounded Bird's Feathers Taste No WindAnd then there's you.
And, it's
kinda funny,
the way you stand out.
I don't
Think
That you know you do.
Which only makes me
Smile
Because it makes
you special
and you stand away
from all that
seems
to
bring
upon that unshod
cloak
called
the normality
of life.
It's Been a Year, Now.It's been a year, now.
I guess you could say.
  And though I've never seen
The point
In that lingering sort of way,

  I have seen light
In that dark cloak
That
Hovered over my head

   Like dark storm clouds
Green skies...
Misty trees.

Your wings arrived
  --Gold isn't the right word--
And silver isn't much better,

Yet they were wings all the same,
Of some sort.

Like paper, I suppose,
Tattooed in your skin.

  I've never seen
The point
In that lingering sort of way.

In the same sense that spiders
Don't make good

Wives,

Metal doesn't
  Make good wings.
So it is of
No surprise
That a year now,

You've been there

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November 25, 2012
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Plaster original sculpture (before the metal final one) located in Vigeland Museum, Frogner (/Vigeland) Park, Oslo, Norway. The sculptor being Gustav Vigeland.

Really cool statues there. Freaky...but cool.
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