Time to post some more random poetry...because I have nothing else better to do with my time. I wrote this poem somewhere around the middle of my sophomore year (approx a year ago) and it is just a big bunch of extended metaphors. I rather like it... (even the title is a metaphor, which is why it doesn't appear to fit with the rest of the poem. It does, trust me.)

With An Author's Name

Where the sun-ripened wheat meets the strong brown oak,

Where the black of night meets the yellow of yolk,

The black circles of Isis surround and meet,

Under the stamping of subdued feet.

Two seas surge alone, you trail the end,

In the room of life where the helix bend.

Across the isle of idiom besides words of old,

Over the chasm flies a glint of gold.

The wooden lily pads circle in endless lands,

The wars we watch sink in timeless sands.

Seamless stone of artificial light,

The time of the game veils the bending night.

Bricked behind glass, slaves to the sign.

Four seasons of four years, pass in line.

In the winter of our world the eyes segregate,

The ivy that crawls will curl our separate fates.

Summer blown to the winds and lives past,

In surreal comfort all knew would never last.