Gentle night, flower of life, roots ever searching
digging deep, sharp and broken, as the air grows course.
Wind takes flight, cuts like a knife, into pedals ever fading
and light creeps, skies silver token, lays shadow on remorse
Deepest dark, ferocious front, stem in desperation.
Holding fast, roots lacking anchor, hastened futility.
attempt to hark, become unbent, to find a foundation.
Broken mast... falsified fervor, the roots then release.
Wretched skies, horrid freedom, uplifted in darkness.
Lost direction, wrapped in chaos, fighting no longer.
Cast aside, wind dies down, landing on pages.
Found protection? trapped when lost, in the spine, now stronger.
You started writing poetry after you took a Shakespeare class. Does this mean that after you are immersed in Jane Austen's work, I can anticipate a lovely story with a prideful, frigid heroine? Perhaps with some gentleman callers who are much too insipid for her liking?
ReplyDeleteNo, but you may expect some more poetry of different thematic relevance. Poems motivated by day to day societal boredom!
ReplyDeletehow does your mind think of these things??... lol
ReplyDeleteps: i like the photo.
ReplyDeleteI like...
ReplyDelete