Author's Note: Well I'm so sorry if I haven't updated any sooner,, but it couldn't be helped… I'm practically writing this poem on a wrist that hurts like a crap load… I still haven't forgotten u all…
Even the wisest man grows tense
With some sort of violence
Before he can accomplish fate,
Know his work or choose his mate – W. B. Yeats, Under Ben Bulben
Rain:
Hear the dripping so silently so.
Feel the cold shiver.
Taste the sweet purity of thy soul.
Coming forth from sorrow… from thy birth
He began to damn us all.
Iris' dance among the showers.
And the forest rejoices
Crying out.. simple tears
In pleasant harmony.
Foreseeing the matrimony of Heaven and Hell.
Death maybe his purpose…
Death maybe his cause.
Yet to the Lily that smells of white plum,
She still blooms among…
A rain of blood…
