Empty Stories
I am told
that I should write
lines that will
a picture make
cold breeze blows
bearing all warmth away
carrying just a whisper
softly to my ears
a distant sound
I can barely hear
somewhere distant
somewhere far away
and I do gaze
looking about
that my eyes might find
from once it comes
in the distance
I can see
dark shadows
that move towards me
somehow inside
a growing fear
a growing tremble
the weakens me
darkness flows towards me now
on rising wind of freezing cold
a growing thunder I can hear
making now my muscles weak
in fearful gaze I cannot see
what it is approaching me
it has no form of sharp lines
nor colors bright that I can see
no raking angles corners form
of colors bright of blue red and green
just dark grayness undefined
is the darkness rushing towards me
rumbling roar greatly grows
but no lightning flashing bright
no sharp sound to understand
and no meaning to be found
rushing wind rips at my clothes
and all my warmth is carried away
and filled with fear I am overwhelmed
at the darkness so undefined
a pinpoint of brightness forms
but it lies within of me
of colors warm the slowly fill
and blooms with hope that I can feel
flowing darkness that does not define
evil menace that fills the mind
sharp angles hard that pierce the heart
cannot stand pure art
of words like these I would not write
that brings no passion to the heart
give no reason to stop and think
a different picture that each might see
I would of emotions paint
speak of love in the warm sunshine
laying mid flowers blooming bright
soft scents carried upon warm breeze
hearts that beat within the breast
hopes that soar in summer’s breeze
but hard angles do they want
squares and circles and angles sharp
reds and blues and purples and pink
and slashing rain so freezing cold
lightning flashes and thunder roars
freezing wind ripping warmth away
cold rain falling slashing hard
hard cold road of blackest form
not of love and beauty warmth
flowing curves the draw the eye
rhythmic motions that call within
emotions flowing to overwhelm
what I would write they do not want
and so hard choices I must make
to write to what they would hear
or of the words that I would say
I will choose the other path
I walk the way that I would go
and if it be I walk alone
and that is the path that I shall choose
Copyright © William Kofoed | Year Posted 2020
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