COULD I WIND-UP

 

 

Grass tickles at my sides when the warm spring breeze comes,

carrying with it the delicate dance of flower scents

and twisted with the clean scent of rain to come.

Bright and clear, the young sun caresses my flesh

like a lover lost but suddenly found but

 soon lost again when the sun glides

across sky and the long shadow is cast on me.

It’s fine though.

 I do not fret over this sudden darkness.

Instead I am thankful for the relief

from heat that might soon have gotten

to be just a little too unbearable if it had continued.

Heat that might have faded away my flesh

and thus destroyed my beauty in such a frightful way

 that when my darling returned I would be frowned at and no longer desired.

Carelessly I would have been thrown away if I were turned into an ugly thing

So really, I am so very lucky for this shadow.

The one that bathes me and cares for me each and every day I lie in the grass.

 

Could I move, could I wind-up the energy to

I would move closer to the stone that is my savior.

From closer I would be able to study the intricacies,

carved upon the face of my friend in delicate curves

and strict lines that must be something important,

meaning something special.

But then if I could move I would not need

this new acquaintance to watch over me.

I would be able to hide myself away at times,

bask at other times to my heart’s content.

And keep myself beautiful for when my darling,

comes to lift me from this grass and take me

back to all my friends in the pretty room from before.

 

My darling will come, I know.

Though the grass has begun to wilt,

fading slowly with the chill that has

begun to seep into the air, the ground.

 

Things have begun to die, I know.

Flower petals gusting past,

quick on the sharp tongued wind,

franticly fleeing from this place.

 

I will not leave this place, I know.

For I shall wait like the good thing

I know I am, the good thing

that will soon be picked back up.

 

Dark stains cling to my stony, silent friend now.

While creeping vines try to strangle it,

crawling upwards a tiny more each day.

Each year?

 

Time doesn’t matter, I know.

For no matter how long I stay,

being the good, pretty little thing I am,

I know that I will be picked up soon.

 

 

My inside are exposed now,

the flesh rotted away as the rain and wind

rip me with teeth sharpened on destruction,

bared and dripping poisonously with the horror of age,

Time passing and seasons cycling while more people

keep crying in this place. More people die.

Dull and rusted my ribs hang out,

exposed by the remaining tatters of my rotten flesh.

Soon all that will remain will be my skeleton,

abandoned in this place of creeping vines,

strangling old friends with fades curves

etched onto the hidden face.

And I, I have not the power, not the energy.

Unable to wind-up myself I shall lie here.

Ugly and broken and unwanted I shall wait,

for a darling that will never come.

Author's Note

Another piece of writing for English class. This was a poem that didn't fit the prompt at all.

Reviews

[R J Askew]

Great stuff. Enjoyed the read. Especially the first and last verses. The poem has a story to it which of course we all live. It it how life is. The thing I like best about it is the sense of intelligence standing back and looking at how life is, the sense of life studying and solving life in a dispassionate way. The poem is just right. It is how life is. The first verse is about youth and hope, save the youthful observer prefers the shadow of reality to the sun of hope. I found myself nodding at this bit '...a little too unbearable if it had continued...' The heat is love, which is life's driving agent, and at times, when it gets into us it drains us and leaves us exhausted, a little closer to death in some ways. They call orgasms little deaths for good reason. So to play a slow, shaddowy game is not a bad idea because we don't burn out so fast. But we all end up with our ribs hanging out. I thought at first that the first 18 or so lines cld be a stand alone poem, and they can, but when I think again I like the sustained whole. I wonder if the middle verses cld be tightened a bit to be as good as the first and last verses, but then smiled as I thought, 'hmmm, in some ways that is what middle life is like ... has neither the freshness of youth, nor the focus of death.' So I got a lot out of the read.