The East
Beckons this soul...

The remnants of a sword, charred and now quite...
Encrusted in the foul blood of heinous deeds...

A forlorn figure in the mist, obscured by heavy...
Forsaken, might she be? Or desolate within...

This poem is called a Nonet. It has nine lines...
Do breathe on me through thy parted lips...

Trodden path, thou layeth ahead
An easy path for weary feet...

Do you, dear poet, recall to mind
Where such passion began its endeavor...

The persistent silence overwhelmed
One heart among many others...

~Before you read this poem, I just want to tell...
Healing words to embrace the cold...

Don’t leave your touch
Lingering upon my skin...

An exhausted soldier leans on his sword
On the bloody field of battle...

Searching and craving for somewhere to abide
My fate; at the doorstep to reside...

The gentle wind stirs memories of old
Taunting significant words left untold...