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wraith, forlorn and reborn
in the night's frenzy
entertaining huddled shadows of doubt
sits the recluse of fear, hunched
over in a dark and heavy shawl
the nightingale sings her sweetest song
and the night-blooming jasmine perfumes
the courtyard with melancholy sublime
a preying mantis sits on my shoulder
whispering secrets I can not tell lest you
awaken from your dream and see me for
what I am--
a will-o-the-wisp, a waif weeping, a willow
dancing with the hunger
that is the blood of life,
my cup is empty,
I return,
daylight attends and I recede into ever more...
Review Request (Intensity):
I want the raw truth, feel free to knock me on my back
Editing stage:
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Comments
Kailashana2
Sat, 2011-12-03 07:54
The unfortunate thing with my
The unfortunate thing with my poetry (to me accordingly), is that I write what passes through, and it always seems to have a melancholy about it, as if I'm already dead, and I'm reliving something or another. It's impossible to tell where I was that particular day of that particular poem. The poem itself is the door to my perception.
Clear as mud? Exactly! Thanks for your read & question, Ian. We're all the the same separate journey.
Poets making their way home their their unique doors of perception.
~A
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