Poetry / Weeping Willow

Hung by the weeping willow my soul sets as the sun rises, burning my eyes from the socket, drifting into nothing, sifting through cotton like clouds they gently touch my face. Dreaming of old memories that have been forgotten, memories of past begotten, filthy priest souls burn rotten, death sprouts flowers of hope’s destruction. Pulled from the fire without end, tossed into the lake of desirable trend, beaten to death without benevolence, buried shallow in misery. Hung by the weeping willow my souls rises to a new day, a day of hopelessness, a day of unending gloom. This gloomy hopelessness that is my everyday, until I exit the womb.

Written By: C.R. Staley 2008

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Reviews

April 30, 2008

lacreo

No. of Reviews	Overall Quality	Comment Followup
0	92.3% (26 votes)	100.0%

personal info reviewer stats

Age	Gender	Location	Last Login
28	M	Brooklyn, NY	May 08

lacreo reviewed Version 1 - Read 100% of the Item

Although you have a lot going in this piece, and it does come across as quite clever, I feel that it could do with a bit of revision. The rambling nature of the words works real well, but there are a few cliche-like statements such as:

cotton like clouds.

I really dig the internal rhymes though.