• 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.


    I am but energy of many forms. 
    I am but happiness in all degrees
    I am but shades of warmth and light
    I am but shadows of countless memories
    I am the faces of undying times
    I am the history forever changing
    I am the mind so cluttered unfilled
    I am the rooms behind great doors
    I am the places beside the pathway
    I am the grass both brown and green
    I am the dew that clings to mornings
    I am the lids that shut for dream scapes

    I am the wind that drifts in whispers
    through ancient canyon who echoes truth

    I am the river that cuts through granite
    I am the son of the living bright-star
    I am the remnant of ancient sentient
    I am the ego in search of humility
    I am the serpent that ate his tail
    I am the knot and ends of tethers
    I am the ear that hears the melody
    I am the fingers that strum the night
    I am the son of the living bright star
    I am the story once shared by firelight

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    Poetry is what gets lost in translation.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

    Desmotti’s Poems (25)