A poem: It all turns to stone All that I hated All that I loved. In my life, All I wanted was a statue in my yard, To stand there And portray: -Masked identity- Perhaps a frozen soul, That statue within my yard So still within my mind Stuck within a position Of insulting its own kind Those stones move Situated in a sublunary life They move to the streaks of the moon. Twisting, their limbs, Contorting their bodies, Dancing to their reflections that portray who their not! Shaking shards of stone from their now sodden –Pelt?- Shall I say? For the gnome in my yard had transformed Reconfigured, Into a slick And sleek And wise old black cat That knows everything within the forest of its years, Nevertheless, nothing at all as those woods are fleeting in my age. Its precarious position (beneath a tree about to splinter, to fall upon itself!) As it cleans the residue of time from its now wide, sleek ferocious lion pelt Within a comedy of a divine nature Dante’s words He, In his own mind Described the air so confident Being fearful of this beast. With a wild mane Murderous eyes And gnarled teeth -ones so curious Now recede Not proceed- I roar Yet it transfigures into a howl One of the pack Stuck under the roof of a leader I hate to know As Dante says The WOLF is heavy in her stride Yet I say Its merely a phase Then I as I run to catch my prey My long slender legs of such magnificence Turn to nothing of importance There forth the rodent in me arises So pitiful As I scuttle along the floor of a sewer Eating and cleaning Not truly learning Merely presiding That WAS my life The word WAS sticks out in my mind For the past lingers like the drunken man at a party It passes out on your couch It is a metaphor with an end though For your become paranoid the past’s presence And start to shoo it away Although it imprints within your mind It leaves tracks within: Your mentality -Though not your physicality- Craves it So you want it back Oh the Past So simple Defined by the mere word WAS By things that have flipped over our shoulders And beyond our reach, My past transfigures Contorts Distorts Scars Heals Mends Breaks It contradicts Yet no matter what ---- ----- I learn from the thing I hate, the thing I love most, and I miss it once I think the hardest. ----- ------ Within my mentality is not my life, my life has yet to begin; it is my past that has yet to be missed! - Kelsey Childs (me)
Posted on: Wed, 10 Jul 2013 14:11:27 +0000
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