when i was a child, i thought that love would burnlike an eternal flame that charredeverything it lay its fingers on, leavingnothing but the grey snow and the rubblea fleeting display of utmost glory snuffedout like a cigarette when i was a child, i fell in love with the seawith the cobalt froth that formedaround me in a dizzying hazewith the calm brought by the taste of … [Read more...] about Reflections Of The Small Hours, By: Arlin Mudju
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – VI. – Plea For The Historian, By: William Wordsworth
Forbear to deem the Chronicler unwise,Ungentle, or untouched by seemly ruth,Who, gathering up all that Time's envious toothHas spared of sound and grave realities,Firmly rejects those dazzling flatteries,Dear as they are to unsuspecting Youth,That might have drawn down Clio from the skiesTo vindicate the majesty of truth.Such was her office while she walked with men,A Muse, … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – VI. – Plea For The Historian, By: William Wordsworth
Young And Naive, By: Ben Leahy
Young and naive,Without worry or the ability to conceive.I picked up an instrument for the first timeA second hand guitar, lost in time gone by,Lost interest in it, as you did in me,Not a second thought given to the things I could be. Was it an oppertunity wastedOr a bullet dodged?Years have passed and now I'm deflated,The useless acts I let my mind get hogged.A childhood … [Read more...] about Young And Naive, By: Ben Leahy
Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – V. – Continued, By: William Wordsworth
Complacent Fictions were they, yet the sameInvolved a history of no doubtful sense,History that proves by inward evidenceFrom what a precious source of truth it came.Ne'er could the boldest Eulogist have daredSuch deeds to paint, such characters to frame,But for coeval sympathy preparedTo greet with instant faith their loftiest claim.None but a noble people could have … [Read more...] about Memorials Of A Tour In Italy, 1837 – V. – Continued, By: William Wordsworth
Across The Margins, By: Mary Bone
I rode my horseacross the margins,dust was flying all around.My journey was just beginning,when I landed on the footnotesof my imagination. … [Read more...] about Across The Margins, By: Mary Bone