11 views
On the horizon
A desolate wasteland,
or an Eden garden,
the mind of a man.
Clotted with fog,
or light showering through the clogs,
cold and warm,
streams of gold,
earned from widoms hold,
or a tale so gore.
Breaching through thought,
all the strings are now held within the palm of he that maketh all.
Reeks of fear,
yet fear could not get rid of light,
maybe deter some of sight,
but it could never get rid of truths fondness for
life.
Once lost in the harsh terrains of the mind,
created by my hand,
til I learned to create,
from the void of thoughts that it gave.
The hour is nigh,
now that they've held on to the neck of hope,
gambling with fear
but faith is handing out the deck.
© Panducollections&co
or an Eden garden,
the mind of a man.
Clotted with fog,
or light showering through the clogs,
cold and warm,
streams of gold,
earned from widoms hold,
or a tale so gore.
Breaching through thought,
all the strings are now held within the palm of he that maketh all.
Reeks of fear,
yet fear could not get rid of light,
maybe deter some of sight,
but it could never get rid of truths fondness for
life.
Once lost in the harsh terrains of the mind,
created by my hand,
til I learned to create,
from the void of thoughts that it gave.
The hour is nigh,
now that they've held on to the neck of hope,
gambling with fear
but faith is handing out the deck.
© Panducollections&co
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