Post by contention on Dec 22, 2005 17:33:04 GMT -5
This poem was a spur of the moment and I can't come to explain it into much else. My mind was comparing to things to the like, I used the imagery of Mothers earths fury and storms to describe not really nature, but in fact a person. The running from the storm could be interpreted as running from an issue. The person could be the stars, corrupted by another force, drawn away by another force. The speaker would come to hate the "clouds", something that gives humanity atmosphere and rain. The balm of the ground, and only the speakers tears would give the soil its long needed cure. The limbs represent nature wise a tree, but in reality they represent a group who are devulged by pressure and only follow what they believe in, ignoring everything else. Once again, the speaker places this nature (person) in the facet of being easily pressured. The events occuring are destruction enough, while the speakers true feelings of everything are kept within them. This poem is free-verse, likely my first and last. Its a small view into collapsing emotions, or thats as much as I can come to explain it. This piece to me, just doesn't seem to connect.
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With the red strokes of sunlight,
I would proudly fall blind;
Like the cackled hen who drowns at curiosity.
I’d wish upon the stars,
And curse the wretched clouds;
Who stream from the faintest source,
To smother the smallest dream.
Oh how they run from Tempest,
Like ramped jesters from fate;
Sadly departed from centuries so bold.
Destruction may boast its haste ablaze;
Opposed to me, my thoughts in haze.
Wild bore, run by aging myth;
To the days of old, scratched from the script.
If pressure was matter, and matter fury;
Only limbs would waver in His favor.
The lifeless pieces, from fruitful ground;
Who stand on one leg,
And part without sound.
Their tears would shed a thousand,
To bring amongst a pest;
A simple beast, that lives
Where misery thrives.
My tears alone would come to compete,
The blue-less wonders
To part along the dying soil;
Mother’s gift, to all of man,
Tampered only by my folly.
A bed of lover’s flirting,
Bathed within all white;
Such shall be where I return,
To rest eternal night.
I would proudly fall blind;
Like the cackled hen who drowns at curiosity.
I’d wish upon the stars,
And curse the wretched clouds;
Who stream from the faintest source,
To smother the smallest dream.
Oh how they run from Tempest,
Like ramped jesters from fate;
Sadly departed from centuries so bold.
Destruction may boast its haste ablaze;
Opposed to me, my thoughts in haze.
Wild bore, run by aging myth;
To the days of old, scratched from the script.
If pressure was matter, and matter fury;
Only limbs would waver in His favor.
The lifeless pieces, from fruitful ground;
Who stand on one leg,
And part without sound.
Their tears would shed a thousand,
To bring amongst a pest;
A simple beast, that lives
Where misery thrives.
My tears alone would come to compete,
The blue-less wonders
To part along the dying soil;
Mother’s gift, to all of man,
Tampered only by my folly.
A bed of lover’s flirting,
Bathed within all white;
Such shall be where I return,
To rest eternal night.