"And What Comes From Darkness"

By: Dalyn K. Roney

Here I am,
A Bleeding Heart.
What do you want from me, blood?

...

And many fall
By moonlight fire
To waning doubt
And stark desire.

Eyes which gaze
To ceiling went
Wide with horror
And wonderment
Focus not
For fear or threat,
But stand to naught
In temperament.

And in the dark
With sin desire
Quench the thirst
For inner fire.

"Untitled"

By: Dalyn K. Roney

I don't like the world.
So I've decided to pretend it doesn't exist.
I won't miss the hunger, or the stress.
The long hours of paperwork and internet searches.
I will fondly remember the sunsets and landscapes.
The weekends and chocolate.
But, I won't let these things distract me.
Because I've made up my mind
to ignore it all.
So I've decided to remain here.
Forever with my head stuck in the ground.
If only I was an Osterich.
Then perhaps I wouldn't feel so silly.

"Explaination"

By: Dalyn K. Roney

Give me an hour and I'll tell you a true story.
give me a minute and I'll tell you a joke.
Take but a moment to see who I am.
Look into my eyes and see tales untold.

Show me a dreamer and I'll tell you a dream.
Point out a philosopher. I'll reveal truths from lies.
Take my hand and I'll share my journey
Down Fate's path written in mind's eye.

The book of Life's pages are turned by the wind.
Give me a chance and I'll tell you how it began.

Sincerely,
Father Time

"Insomnia"

By: Dalyn K. Roney

Turning pages of a book.
Watching shadows on the walls.
Hours stretching impossibly onward.
Stinging silence almost tangable.

Cleaning rooms and doing chores.
Restless with the pressing stress.
Constant exaughstion and missing times.
Idle hobbies of great importance.

Laying in bed awake. Thinking.
Dreamless nights of constant waking.
Painful tears which spring without reason.
Nagging doubts in self reflection.

Longing for safety, peace, isolation.
Coveting rest on an alter of rarety.
Hoping for solutions to worthless problems.
Perhaps I'll sleep tomorrow.

"untitled"

From a journal entry:

I feel almost as if I'm floating. There are times when the music I write flows through my entire spirit from my hands. I wish I could have constant companionship of that muse which sometimes favors me with its magic. It is then the spirit moves me totears, and I write beautiful music. And I cry. Because I know as soon as I remove my hands from the piano, and once the notes are played, that I will never remember the tunes again. They return to the muse on their spirit wings. And I sit and marvel at the magic of the world.

This is the mood I'm in now.That magic and solitary feeling of contentment that encourages you to write poetry or make love...