Thursday, October 13, 2005


I've been pondering a bit on writing and truth.

I once knew someone who smithed me letters like a dreamweaver and I believed every word. It was his ability to write that trapped me. He wrote everything that I had ever wanted to believe about love.

One day I found letters that he had been writing to someone else...much like the words that he had wrote to me at one time. My rose colored glasses shattered. The truth is that I clung to the words he had written, and ignored the reality around me.

Words are powerful. And paper burns.


Tell me a story
Write me a page
Wrought by your pen
Capture me in a gilt cage

Weave me silk lines
Of true love without sorrow
Catch moonbeams tonight
Spin sunshine tomorrow

Ink me a world
Fill up my head
Wave your glass stylus
Ensare me in web

I'll believe every line
Verse, proverb, and prose
Just to lose time
In a room full of rose

And when the book closes
Not a noble I'll see
You're only you
And I'm only me

A bard who can write
Words like a dream
Crafts no more the truth
Than a whore who claims queen


At 10:25, Anonymous Anonymous said...

Very nice.......I like this.


At 18:07, Blogger Kassi said...

Thank you
poetry is often very subjective, therefore sometimes difficult to share publicly


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