Random Poetry Rant


Tyler Murphy

Four different poems. The Widow, Today, Foreverwild and Fight the good fight. none of them are really related.

The Widow
A solemn widow also did attend,
All alone, every hope and dream did she surrend.
Walking toward the martyr’s great achievement,
Unfortunately fleeing her enduring bereavement.
They only cheer was resident in her advice.
Splendidly given to the rest free of vice.
Preaching not all is lost no matter what the strife,
Although she gave little hope for her own life.
Existing to belong; love in a dream,
Shattered now by god’s great scheme.
Hollowing burning of bleeding memories,
The silent percussion of lost prophecies.
Learning life’s mortal convulsions,
Praying we find our own absolutions.

Today
The future is blooming.
Joy, love, and forever are to come assuming.
All in sacrifice to tomorrow’s tribute.
What to come; all sorrows present become mute.
Nothing stands so astonished as my dreams.
Emotional explosions of hope it seems.
All my heart in the future’s being.
All costs given to accomplish true meaning.
I live forever in that which might exist.
Living in ignorance is great bliss.
How long until it’s here I can not say,
For I lost it all because I forgot to live Today.

Forever Wild
Forever wild heartbeats blaze affection.
All love captured by beauty’s perfection.
An intense rage filled passion
Controlled in such a delicate and settled fashion.
Romantic moments of together,
fall near that of an angel’s feather.
Forever may you choose to be with me
Only then will we become free.

Fight the good fight
The eternal shores of reality beat upon each grain of sand. Blood soaked tide torn forward against barren land. As far as able scope of perception can realize all appears battle worn. Countless bodies turned over in infinite repetition. So many have fought, yet so few have been taught.

The waves never stop; defeat never conceived. Yet open so desolate stands one who still believes. Still as silence stands the defiant. Locked, looking over the deep toward the horizon. Always does it rise, ever reliant. Amidst the carnage does our Angel glare. Knowing the futile quest does nothing but allow the angelic to prepare. To reach the east is what must be achieved. All before have failed and none have ever been retrieved.

The first step of death is contributed. Into fluent oblivion must hope be plunged and refuted. The hateful waters boil red and flare; pain ensues. Forever set delicate blue armor stands. The burning consumption ignored, the righteous continues. A torrent of blood like waves derived. Within every current death flows, but still courage finds a way to survive. Blessed wings take blessed breath, pulled above by will. Laid below is billowing death. Toward an unreachable the Archangel strives to endure. Hope is grasped, honor brought to bare, morality pure.

Alas one more horror appears charged with hate in the deeper. Shrouded in violence and loss approaches the skeletal Reaper. Our Angels fiery sword brought to defend, our Reaper’s icy scythe drawn eagerly to amend. All things hateful does he represent and support. Evil tidings concerning lonely greed does he consort. The battle erupts, sparks of fate fall to the shore. Lightening lit reflections shimmered as never before. The shade defeated our future endures. To the stars triumphant idealism reassures. To the heavens does the impossible achieve, showing us all what we must believe.