A Song

A Song.

With a song I bury my hate.
A sound so deep it touches the fiery pit.
But my hate is strong and does not go easily.
But with a chord it dies.
And with a song I feel it no more.

With a verse I bury my love.
A sound so filled with sorrow it could make a demon cry.
But the sound does not affect me for I have no tears left.
And with a chord I feel it no more.

With a line I bury my joy.
A sound so tired, not even its speaker’s ear hears it.
An existence left so bleak, its light and joy gone
But thus must the chord be, for to bury one is to bury all.
So with a line I feel it no more.

With a word I feel it no more.
Because I am become the darkness thus, is the chord complete.
A life without joy and love or even hate, is a life of darkness.
A sound so bleak it could make angels die.
With a word I bury my soul.

By: Jeron Barclay.

The will to love

The will to Love.

I rise as in transient dreams which cannot yet contain, describe nor compare to your beauty.

Mind and tongue frozen in awe.
I find no voice to make my admiration of your beauty known.
This adulation causes me much grief.
I fear I shall never have you by my side.

Thou art my angel.
Thou art my sheath.

Thousands of angels in chorus could not compare to the sound of your voice.
I sit in glorious silence awaiting the grandeur of your voice.
For it is the sanctuary of my soul.

In your joy I find my strength.
And in this strength the will to love once more.
To love in its’ greatest power.

With my whole heart and soul.

By Jeron Barclay.

The Journey

The Journey.

Two roads lay before me.
Stretching to either horizon.
Leading to places unknown yet foreseen.
Places I long to go.
To see for myself.

My heart yearns to walk one road.
But it will not suffer one such as me to pass.
The road my heart yearns for will soon cease to exist.
And only the lonely road will be left.

On this road I will remain solitary for a long time.
One far off day, chains will grow from my hands.
Then will I be joined by others.
And one aspect of my spirit will cease to be.

With hesitant steps I walk the road that is left to me.
With each forlorn step I recall roads I should have walked.
For this loneliness is like dying slowly and painfully.
And only too late will I recall the juncture, where a third road unnoticed was left unexplored for it would have left me unhappy.

But at least I would not have been alone.

By: Jeron Barclay.