Goddess

4 Comments

Tags:
  • Philosophy
    • Desmotti
    • The wraith is but sadness in mortal form. It haunts to hunt, and hunts to feed. It cannot feed on any emotion. This is its pain. for emotion is not segregated it is fealt, and to feel is warmth.

    Goddess

    I saw her dancing happily...
    Dancing free...for all to see...
    And while she danced...time stood still...
    This Goddess of time...was getting her fill...
    She twirled...and twirled...around she spun...
    She had no worries...her having her fun...

    Until she fell off Time's great Cliff...
    Time's sands they caught her in dunes...great drifts...
    Time swept her away...no signs of this Goddess...
    Caught and entrapped in her carelessness...

    We say Gods are pure...with no fault to see...
    Then how could this carelessness come to be?
    Some think she wanted to take a break...
    But breaks are the No's that Gods can't take.

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    Maat commented on Goddess

    07-13-2010

    ...and this, to them that think the gods are without their faults... beautiful write, and i like the rhythm too..

    Springsize commented on Goddess

    02-09-2010

    I like the story of the Time Goddess... noting you listed this poem as philosophy, -- a few children's stories have used this fall from grace, disgrace, so it wasn't a brand new ending... but your's is interesting and vivid and entertaining !!

    Desmotti

    06/14/2010

    yeah...this was an assignment when I was 18...I was young restless...breakfast table in an otherwise empty head....wait...isn't that pearl jam?

    redbloodink commented on Goddess

    02-08-2010

    nice write..... I enjoyed it..... but there is only one God even tho He made us to be lil ones to help Him change the world by Him though us..... red

    Desmotti

    02/09/2010

    Yes that is truth...but I couldn't see God without a companion...Man is not so good without Woman...and so it is through Godhood.

    RettaJ commented on Goddess

    11-11-2009

    amen, beautiful poem...it's like being swept away into a deep passion of unknown

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Desmotti’s Poems (25)