Contemplation of a Desk

The pencil sits at home,
right by eternal flowers
which pages lived and brought
every soul that's full of sorrows
and deep thoughts,
the dead body of the czar's daughter;
a sea of indian fire,
a shaman's eternal power,
the death-soul of its sire;
an angel's weeping caught
in the heart of our desires.
Tears fall from their leaves,
fears and lonely martyrs,
ignorants in bliss,
wars and silver flowers;
the ocean seems to be
the world's biggest question
while the works of human hearts
freeze in certain faux perceptions.
The wind, the rose and leaves;
the tears, the fears, the pencil;
and the magic of our heaves
written on its petals.

Vamp Ikarus