Orion's Cry

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Self Image.

So how have we embellished this, centuries of an isolated entity?
How the time neglects to connect to the infinite judgments.
The memories have devoured pride, and an influx of earth jolts to the sea.
Hunt the trifling sun though it finds in the nebulous of light.
Rise to the golden lion showing his eyes and bellowing like the Orion.
The desolate poet climbs to his feet once more, giving to the abyssal winds as it seeps and feeds upon the shore. Riding the storm, the steed gallops towards an endless sea.

There is a silent happiness that carries on the wing of the goddess, allowing him to entwine within the circle of rival thoughts …to at last ridden the young man from the weight carried upon sight, upon au courant birth.
Thy eyes opened to set upon a living dawn, hurled from the mountain towers and proving essence towards a inordinate calling, to stand ere and remote to the palace of man.

Truce says the parasite affixed to an aureate star following chariots of embers climbing the virgin horizon, which remained untouched, untainted by the illustrated dream.
Composedly their eyes rested upon a bedimmed figure of necrosis, its face as ashen as the moon. It’s voice of owls crooning amongst the howling gales.
Sensing a vision of the storm; Blessed resound lull,
He laments at his birth!
The erudite orator tells of the enigma. “You cannot charge towards the rising of a sun, nor could you seize the whisper of the twilight."
Eyes recoiled to the thinker, harrowing at its confidence.

A stallion rides with the towering clouds, its columns echo taking place of thunder among the missing storm, to conduct balance for the tipping spectrum of energy.
The holy war comes silently in the night.
The ghost god rises from the rocky pavilion unscathed, pushing lawful decaying debris from flawless earths.
The skies fly sideways towards an infinite reform of birth and evolution to break wind to sails.
Reaching quickly in tattered guise, he is lost to the confusion of compelling deserts and dreams. One finds himself on the edge of the world tossing rocks overboard into limitless unsettled seas where he cannot find ground to stand up on.
Fall witness to the unearthly aura of the night all is truthful there and nowhere.
Losing track of reality, he is unbelieving in the pitiful laziness of his kin.

Rise dear god and take your chariot to the sea, let us be holy again in the
dawning oblivion of paradox. The shrew felt of the golden lion, and was turned to ash before the shire of voice.
A sound from the past reminds him of the dizzy wake, where once he could not
dream, and now roams in meadows of truth. As the world follows its mirrored turn, a figure unseen by the blind and denied by the cold corpse of reason rises silently in the night, to give birth to a dawning right.

Submitted: June 21, 2011

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