If you build it, they will come, he said.
But they never came.
The travellers were all dead.
And so they never came.
By Paul Crocker3 years ago in Poets
How the roots intertwine.
Wrapping around my legs like vines.
Grounding me into the soil like an anchored ship.
But I'm not complaining about the grip.
On a winter's night, John Keats returned home.
He was cold, wet and alone.
He felt a little under the weather but he chose to ignore.
One day you are sweet to me, you can't do a thing wrong.
Everything you say sounds like birdsong.
Hooked on every word that passes your lips.
You discover a house that has been locked for years.
Behind its doors are the memories of tears.
You break inside but that was a mistake.
This is not a traditional love affair.
One lover on the ground and one in the air.
But it is those brief moments that they share.
In romantic writing, there are four attributes that adorn the page.
You will be guided through each stage.
Nature can not grow here and spirituality does not have a hope.
The human body is an amazing thing.
With all of the advancements it can bring.
However there is one mistake to this perfected form.
People play the lottery and scratchcards every day.
The desperation shows in not so subtle ways.
But everyone is sometimes down on their luck.
Many lovers have I.
From ground to sky.
In sea or tree.
Such beings romance me.
I can not ignore their calls.
Up towering mountains or cascading waterfalls.
Inside of me is a demon who hides behind my lungs.
He lies in wait to seal my fate to where the innocent are hung.
He drinks my blood and gnaws my bones.
Each of us have a story to tell.
Whether it be one of heaven or one of hell.
Each one is as important as the next.
And with our pens is how we express.