Who wrote the colour red? by emzyjordan, literature
Literature
Who wrote the colour red?
Who would create something so contradictory in itself
That it doesn’t remember who it stands for?
It could be love, could be blind hate, ferocious evil, or Christmas day.
It could be the blossoms inside of your cheeks, or the raw,
Red rubbing of a break in your soft, milk skin.
It could be the blood that keeps me running, running,
Or could be the leak that holds me still, succumbing.
It could be a rip in a fading sky, or the leaves, gently
Falling, falling, falling, on the wind of autumn nights.
It’s recurring and subtle, rare, like a jewel,
And so damn confused that it could mean anything, nothing,
Nothing at all.
We pull the strings that handle the night,
We brush your fingers onto each door.
We close your mouth to silence the fright,
We pull the stars from their place in the skies.
We stop the moon from showing his face,
We guide the wind into each crack.
We wilt the flowers, draw life from the buds,
We burn the leaves, charring them black.
We are awoken, and we shall awake,
We lift the hairs on the back of your neck.
We are the ones who play with the dead,
We are the ones who march before Death.
We are the corners, the shadows, the screams,
We are the hidden, the whispers of dreams
That shall never come into the light,
For we are the darkness, g
If we could, what would we be?
If we could, we should, agreed?
If it’s not too much to say
“Darling, will you be mine today?”
Then say it, say it, say it please,
I’d promise you that I’d never leave,
If only you’d ask and ask me true,
I’d love you until wild flowers grew
On my grave, our grave, over me and you.
Who wrote the colour red? by emzyjordan, literature
Literature
Who wrote the colour red?
Who would create something so contradictory in itself
That it doesn’t remember who it stands for?
It could be love, could be blind hate, ferocious evil, or Christmas day.
It could be the blossoms inside of your cheeks, or the raw,
Red rubbing of a break in your soft, milk skin.
It could be the blood that keeps me running, running,
Or could be the leak that holds me still, succumbing.
It could be a rip in a fading sky, or the leaves, gently
Falling, falling, falling, on the wind of autumn nights.
It’s recurring and subtle, rare, like a jewel,
And so damn confused that it could mean anything, nothing,
Nothing at all.
We pull the strings that handle the night,
We brush your fingers onto each door.
We close your mouth to silence the fright,
We pull the stars from their place in the skies.
We stop the moon from showing his face,
We guide the wind into each crack.
We wilt the flowers, draw life from the buds,
We burn the leaves, charring them black.
We are awoken, and we shall awake,
We lift the hairs on the back of your neck.
We are the ones who play with the dead,
We are the ones who march before Death.
We are the corners, the shadows, the screams,
We are the hidden, the whispers of dreams
That shall never come into the light,
For we are the darkness, g
If we could, what would we be?
If we could, we should, agreed?
If it’s not too much to say
“Darling, will you be mine today?”
Then say it, say it, say it please,
I’d promise you that I’d never leave,
If only you’d ask and ask me true,
I’d love you until wild flowers grew
On my grave, our grave, over me and you.
In the Deepest of my Dreams by WalkinginDreamlight, literature
Literature
In the Deepest of my Dreams
You won't see it here
or anywhere near
in this lifetime
or the next
but somewhere
out there
I'm hearing whispers
in the deepest of my dreams
of a face that's appeared
amongst the stars
I wonder if it dreams...this face
in harmonies and melodies
that have suddenly appeared
within my mind