The Street Corner

[Everett Wade]

-The Street Corner-

As I sit on the street corner
The pallid breath of the streetlight
Washing over my soul
Bowed down with waiting.

The tides of moonlight
Slide over my skin.

As in most chances
I am inevitably too late.

I remember this sound,
The wake of crystal,
The last traces of an unresolved chord--
Dying on the flitting wings of the air.
An outlasting echo of a thirsting voice--
Entranced in the cold of hope.

I who,
Though unfailing in effort,
Will always fail in the end.

Your face, so ever the same,
So easily fades with time.
And my love confines--
Even defines--
The emptiness of myself.

So being, that the wildest things,
The most extreme,
The most passionate,
Though needing the strongest cages,
Will ever be kept closer
Through love.

Love that twists not in rage of the fire,
Or the waning of the morrow.
Consoled in twinge of blackened sorrow...
Continuing beyond funeral pyre...

But enough has been said!
What for conceptualizing a tale,
In which halfwits now run the works?
So instead I chose to paint,
In shadows of, "Who?" and "When?".

As I sit and wait,
The triad of love, death,
And hate
Begs not for life,
Moon flecked eyes--
One out of three.
Recognition masked
If not only for thee,
Only to those who I love.

Whispers echo...

Like the ringing scythes across a field...

Or perhaps the clash of chain against stone...

Overtones of wind reach me
As I sit on the street corner.

[Sandra]

Nice poem!!!

[George.Wright]

Ev
you write some very nice stuff!!!!!
Georges

[Everett Wade]

Thanks =)

[fishfishquaileye]

-The Street Corner-

As I sit on the street corner
The pallid breath of the streetlight
Washing over my soul
Bowed down with waiting.

The tides of moonlight
Slide over my skin.

As in most chances
I am inevitably too late.

I remember this sound,
The wake of crystal,
The last traces of an unresolved chord--
Dying on the flitting wings of the air.
An outlasting echo of a thirsting voice--
Entranced in the cold of hope.

I who,
Though unfailing in effort,
Will always fail in the end.

Your face, so ever the same,
So easily fades with time.
And my love confines--
Even defines--
The emptiness of myself.

So being, that the wildest things,
The most extreme,
The most passionate,
Though needing the strongest cages,
Will ever be kept closer
Through love.

Love that twists not in rage of the fire,
Or the waning of the morrow.
Consoled in twinge of blackened sorrow...
Continuing beyond funeral pyre...

But enough has been said!
What for conceptualizing a tale,
In which halfwits now run the works?
So instead I chose to paint,
In shadows of, "Who?" and "When?".

As I sit and wait,
The triad of love, death,
And hate
Begs not for life,
Moon flecked eyes--
One out of three.
Recognition masked
If not only for thee,
Only to those who I love.

Whispers echo...

Like the ringing scythes across a field...

Or perhaps the clash of chain against stone...

Overtones of wind reach me
As I sit on the street corner.

As we approach the 10 year anniversary of the posting of this poem, I want to share my view that, sadly, it has now decade.