A Meager Birth

A Meager Birth ~

I am being eaten, very much alive,
By my internal demons.
Is there such a thing as love to say,
That it alone can wash your demons all away,
And leave you suckling-
A baby's quiet thumb up to its mouth,
Or hanging on it's mother's breast.
Is there such a thing called love,
To come to grips with those tender, quietly nursing thumbs,
To hold you in a warm, solid embrace,
Does it even exist, or is it-
A typical fancy?
Can we even say that we care, or-
Is there only,
An idea that is in our heads, of what it would be like to be,
A baby nursing?
Do we truly know what love is?
Can it cast demons aside, does it . . .
Even exist?
Or shall it,
Be thrown aside in the dark, leaving us to,
Chase it down the block,
Always running after our dreams and,
Forever reliving,
Some fanciful idea in our heads that we,
Aren't too sure is even real . . .

Does anything exist, or are we,
Living in a world of our own fanciful make, filled with,
A basket of colorful creations,
Like a detailed cornucopia, which we-
Feeling bored, one day, somehow threw together,
To bide the day away?
Life, love, and hope,
Enmeshed within the handheld vase.
Something the shimmered and looked pretty when it suckled the sand beneath our toes . . .
Adding much to the picture of the setting sun in some form, as we looked vaguely across the sea,
When life began its meager start.

Reviews

[Androglossia]

Hi, it's been years, isn't it? Your choice of words is pricesless as the last time I was here. This one feels very real. It's full of life, literally. It presents ugliness of make believe, of what people want others to see. It presents anomaly hidden in layers of subtle words. This one's quite tricky. One has to read between the lines.