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Sickles of lies

By Sheila Woolum All Rights Reserved ©

Poetry / Fantasy

Sickles of lies

What would become of me if I was left without you , you had my breath in your hand, you had my heart in your lies , you had my only soul that walked without my eyes, I have walked without my soul for so long, and then I was without my hands and looked they where walking beside me with my arms outstretched beyond what could had been , what did my eyes see, what did my hands see, the cover of the lies, the blankets of feeling, those things that my heart feels , and then love will lie,

it takes the form of Punishment , the joy of the never-ending cause, that thing we cannot handle we cannot obtain, we cannot give to our own self of lack , we as the prisoner of hope are the lost , we are the lost , we are the cause we are that which we cannot feel , we are. and if we see our own selves beneath the oceans of blood how can it be that which we are within our own prison , we will die. we will die from the pain , we will die from the books, we will die. that which the mortal body falls beneath , that thing the heart has the choice and the capability to form an illusion within the time , we are that which remains the punishment of ourselves, we are our own enemies , we are our own self of lack our prisons of those things that which we cannot obtain , our tears would be kept within our prison of hope , we are the writer of our own stories, we are the writer of our own words, we are lost within our own prisons…

we can no longer make a form of a bridge for those that take from us, we can no longer give head to the form of  prisons , we can no longer give our forms of blades, we can no longer give our measures of hope we are our blades of summer as the Sickles form within our hearts, are transgressions are without measures and our time has taken its form within the sounding board of homes.  for without its measure we can no longer be , and without our measures we can no longer roam this earth to be within our conformity , we are lost, we are lost without our home , we are lost without our hope , we can no longer be the beauty within our own souls, we can no longer be our shadows of our minds, we can no longer be our own chalice of our blood within our own blades of torment, we are finished.

we are finished within our prisons walls , and we will be finished upon this plane , we are finished beneath our souls , and we are finished beneath the hopes of everything we hold , we hold that flower , that flower of hope , that flower that surrounds itself in the sun light of beaming hopes , that sun light that gives hope that sun light that has beauty , that sun light that gives warmth to the soul , sit in the sun of the future and hold your breath , hold your breath until nothing makes sense anymore , nothing makes sense, hear the heart beat and then know that nothing makes sense.
Write a Review Did you enjoy my story? Please let me know what you think by leaving a review! Thanks, Sheila Woolum
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