G. M. Stroll
About me: I'm a 30 year old schizophrenic author, living in Montreal. I took up writing, at first, to give a gift to a sick friend of mine; dedicated to raising money for charitable research into her illness. I discovered that I loved the trade, and made a short hop over into fiction a couple years ago. I'm currently in the process of querying my first fiction novel, Trinity Divided. My inspiration is generally drawn from music, but equally every psychosis I've survived has left me with shattered dreams from which to piece together a story. Through all the mediums one can write, I'll always have a love - hate relationship with poetry. To me, poetry is a thinly veiled window into our deepest emotions.
G.M. Stroll can also be found on Authonomy.
Chasing dreams through the stars,
Drum beat hearts that once were ours.
Disjointed breaths through time and space,
A message, a bottle, a word would they lace.
From crow to dove to the heavens above,
All would know that the word was love.
In the evening's still, the sun sets all the same,
The only thing left to hold onto is your name.
Her eyes, in summer's majesty, glistened with a mildew sheen;
His eyes were frail, broken, bound and bereaved in the wood.
Her heart false, if only not to betray a pain at the seam;
His heart would spark like kindling, for through her it could.
Her eyes, in fall's decay, grew distant, solemn and stronger;
His eyes linger, in shades of rose, yet still missing their mark.
Her heart withers where fostered hope trespassed no longer ;
His heart was both clumsy and fearful, yet naked, openly stark.
Her eyes, in winter's despondancy, reveals a mercy so soft;
His eyes contrast as erupts a miasma of purpose and defeat.
Her heart restrained to dreams from wence prayers waft;
His heart reaches out for those seeking in love's retreat.
The truth was in their estranged eyes, misplaced in time.
The hunger was in their unsure hearts, spoken in rhyme.