EffigyEffigy by Taelra
A figure, there, stood - standing, waiting by an open door,
It heaves and breathes with woes, as if in beckon for no more.
With desperate hands clambering, searching for respite,
The walls beside him climbed, though stand relentless in their height.
Chestnut eyes rusted with greys; long, now, are his days,
A flow to mirror his crown of hair, yet splintering in decay,
Olive skin with vigour, adorning, reforming to a husk,
The birthing of his dawn has now wilted into dusk.
A child of mist and ashen-grey cloud bore against his breast,
With his mind to infest, his own heart he came to detest,
Till it came blackened and charred, marred to disrepair,
Though with crumbling arms, he embraced the child in despair.
Weaving a hand through smoky wisps - the child's locks of white,
It swiftly came to freight, present was a preordained blight:
No longer conferred is the tranquil warmth from each breath,
This child he bore, for sure, was an effigy of his death?
Remorse a torrent flushed before eyes o
BellsWon't you remember the calling of Their bells?Bells by Taelra
The infinite allure of their resonance stricken
And step backward into darkness unfurling,
The ever reaching, ashen-grey clouds --
Back into your sweet sanctity
wherein shadows, my arms reside open
To embrace you as gently you so drift:
My once enduring, autumnal leaf,
Now sapped of warmth by my winters wrought,
So frail, so cold --
Falling ever from my reach
To heights my arms scream to grasp.
I bide my days in a prison of madness,
Amazed by taunting memories quaint and cruel
And cover with cracked hands
The flickering ember, fated to fade:
The remnant spark of our love.
I cover it with my beaten carapace,
And wail in my insanity unto its fade,
As is the time of Their calling...
I hear the haunting melodies,
I hear Their bells.
A Flight of HeartHer jewels of onyx glint diadem my throne in her eyes yet beheld;A Flight of Heart by Taelra
Her opulent stars to which even tree and stone far below bend before.
I stay to mineself in fleeting shadows neath the solace of her own,
Though durstn't forgo the unmarred dream of her tender wings above.
Claimed at thought not yet misgiven and of own heart now purloined,
From deep within my breast, a most passionate ember I wrest,
And from beneath the passing skies overhead cry out my lay to thee:
"Dear 'Gale, dear 'Gale - your song consumes me so!
Dancing o'er all, with such elegance I cannot neglect,
Nor remove thought from the keepsake of my stilled eyes!
From your sweetest night's call, into dreams I fall lulled;
Benighted within the cast of your soaring shadow quaint.
No more is my voice weighted with song,
Nor, no longer my heart doth throb alone,
But for you, I cry above from the skies 'low
And hope for gazes to rest upon my own
Wherein we may then be as twain...
...For none are e'er more pure,