Studio8 - Uniting the Arts

Stranded on an island called exile
where the self inflicted pain
makes the itch of longing remain
unscratchable ever again!.
As I wander on primary rocks
searching for my maker in gratitude
for stuffing my mind with ample thought
and an "easy come, easy go" attitude.
Yet I persist on demanding peace
not with an apocalyptic struggle
but a good old primal scream.
I remain stretched, reaching out
for a vision uncharted in a dream
obscured but viable it might seem.
As I walk that lonely walk
within the language of stones
up and down in rapid pace
searching for a time, a place
where I can ultimately face
the choice of my own making.
I have just enough hope to cope
with the bait at the end of my rope
as the outgoing tide
will take away and hide
those turbolent thoughts
while images keep on falling
from the corner of my eyes
I can hear the silent cries
of forbidden angels

Oh yes very good.

One would think there is such a thing as God creating something less than God.

Strange thought. Observant poem.

I hear it as a rap......intriguing .....