Heart's True Grace.

A Pantoum Of Pain.

In the depths of despair, I bear my wounds,
Pains that linger within, like ancient runes.
In the cycle of life, time's cruel hand dooms,
As I'm left here, bleeding, amidst the moors.

Amidst the moors, where faeries doth reside,
Their enchanting whispers, they cannot hide.
But their charms cannot mend this aching side,
For my wounds run deep, where others cannot find.

Where others cannot find, I seek solace,
In the ancient tales of warriors, fearless.
But my wounds, they persist, and I confess,
I am but a vessel for this endless cycle.

This endless cycle, it drags me adrift,
Through the treacherous storms, my heart is gripped.
Yet I yearn for the love, in hopes to uplift,
This weary soul, cursed by ancient turmoil.

Cursed by ancient turmoil, I wander alone,
In search of a love that will call me home.
But my wounds, like whispers, they will postpone,
Any chance of respite, from sorrows unknown.

From sorrows unknown, I long for release,
From this burden that consumes, strand by strand.
But my wounds, like the ocean, they don't cease,
They ebb and they flow, a constant demand.

A constant demand, to endure the ache,
As I wander through life, heart slowly breaks.
But I hold onto hope, for love's sweet sake,
That one day, my wounds will find their own grace.

Find their own grace, as time circles round,
Through the depth of despair, love is renowned.
And though my wounds pain me, they have profound
Lessons to teach, as I traverse this ground.

As I traverse this ground, I embrace,
The cyclicality of life's somber embrace.
For within these wounds lie hidden traces
Of strength and resilience, my heart's true grace.
Written By,
Ivan Edwin Pen Name--Maximus.

Author's Note

This poetry describes the pain of wounds that becomes treacherous storms in our lives.