I Love to Write Poetry

A broken thing,lying among the discard.Knowing nothing of the pragmatic,nor the despondent,but of mere abidance.A light,so vehemently shaken,then extinguished by precipitous hands of blast,and damnation.Ensnared in the threshold of those golden rays,then swept up into the steely arms of the Valkyrie.A smile,now agape, as starfire eyes see the eternal ether.