To sleep through its entirety,
this world clinging to me,
to pass up its absurdity,
and flash by in obscurity;
A couplet,
a trumpet,
wings ripped from a body;
A prophet,
a puppet,
the line thins out steadily;
To keep time to the marching feet,
trotting before and after me,
to be ignored and put to sleep,
and pass by flailing blindly;
A sunset,
a trinket,
sunk too deep to retrieve;
A target,
a portent,
no skin on my knees.
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a look at the darkside
Independent views from someone who offers some historical context
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"The silence of the night awakens my soul"
poetry for the soul
Writing should be honest, heart-breaking, and maybe a little offensive.
recovering from despair
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This blog seeks ways and means of curtailing, or even eliminating, the palpable and burgeoning evil of domestic violence and abuse.
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Reblogged this on Americana Injustica.
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This is deeply intriguing. In the vein of all great poetry it pulls you in towards what seems like a great secret but then quickly passes you off again into a labyrinth of mystery, allusion, possibility, suggestion, implication, fear, hurt, glory and all that stuff. I love what you do and I hope you know how good you are at it. Wonderful.
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Tut tut, Master Poet…you humble me.
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Haha 🙂 I just love this feeling your work creates of ‘knowing precisely what you mean, but never quite’
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You intuit much more precisely than most, then. ☺
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Maybe. Sometimes it’s just a ‘wavelength’ thing, I think, where people just somehow seem to ‘get’ each other instinctively. 🙂
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