Untitled

T'was the muse who's wrapped in ice and thorns
who walked towards the purple rose.

A choice of waiting for summer's day
or pushing aside the winter's day.

Through the foggy road she walk by,
as she came to reach the purple bloom.

The thick mist she used to hide,
the scar and bruise of September's blow.

Bleeding as she extends her warmth,
blindly as he look through the muse.

The rose seem cold despite the warmth,
which turned her heart to shatter in a snap.

She outbreaks in a cry for plead of warmth
to melt the ice and wilt the thorns.

To start anew, to warm more bloom,
to see more smiles from the crowd in view.


---------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Haven't thought of a good title for this poem that I wrote last night. It's been a while since I wrote something like this. Last night, I was so happy to be talking with Pia, Bem and Francis. It must be the chocolates that I ate. Talking using gay lingo and "conyo" is like crazy. Haha! Hope everyday is a fun day. I'll end this with a quote..

From Ate Mer's post:
“By referring to previous struggles and using them as reasons for not getting on with your life today, you’re assigning responsibility to the past for why you can’t be successful or happy in the present.”

- Dr. Wayne Dyer