Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.

Feathers whisper stories and poems of life before.
Feathers lie in the cold, it tell stories of life before.

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Sweet Dream Pacifica

Death is real happiness. In it, a true rest rests. By it, one draws closer to God.



 
 Twilight closed the wearying Cyclops’ eye

What vision spread in the silent darkness?

Spasm-covered skin stretched over the lightless

Damp cubicle, capped by the looming sky.

Could happy song then quench nocturnal sigh?

Nay, Waves waft eternal in the vastness

Of grains of dreams, the eyes are colorless

In your long deep sleep—the heaven so nigh.

 

But, wailing now ceases in Lethean slumber

In cold, December night miseries asleep.

 Forget the day or night constant sighing

For yours, is sweet repose; not found in number?

Adieu, adieu the faith in you have kept

A happiness smiles not found in paining.