That awful sound <br />uttered so lightly <br />''he's dead'' <br />passes through you <br />rising roots intwined <br />that softly dim <br />cheerful eyes <br />into tears- <br />finding the body <br />of a man <br />at the base <br />of one of the seven pillars <br />makes the question hang <br />in the air <br />like a bad smell- <br />blood, full red <br />with lifes own heat <br />taken by <br />firey pride <br />left to rot <br />by the side <br />where <br />seven pillars stand <br />like a simple stone <br />joining a brook <br />where water <br />isn't far <br />to follow <br />strands of life <br />on a restless spirit <br />and just as stiff <br />on an endless night <br />where every thought <br />has power <br />and things really don't mesh <br /> <br /> <br />Copyright ©2004<br /><br />Adryan Rotica<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/strands-of-life/
