The Subtle War

The war between what I have 

and the reality that it cannot be shared is bloody.

It crawls like a beetle in my veins, 

stabbing its pincher to make holes for an unprovable wound.

Like when I watch the silver fingertip

of a full moon reach out to trace the cheek of a bashful leaf - 

but nobody else sees this,

just how remarkable and bewildering subtle interactions can be.

Perhaps it’s a cultish persuasion, 

that my perceptibility is only a hopeful pattern of figments. 

Nothing exists as I perceive it, 

and the blunt truth is a half-baked, shallow actuality - 

where couples meet to reproduce,

and flowers grow because rain falls, and we live simply to die.

Magic and romanticism are said to fail,

residing in the minds of wishful thinkers who struggle with acceptance.

I choke on tears with this possibility,

watching the large, fascinated eyes of a child chasing a bright butterfly.

It’s also possible that we are fooled,

told to stamp away natural enchantment in case we become wildly free.

But even individual freedom is lonely, 

unless others notice the beautiful sparks of a cigarette’s ash on concrete - 

or else, who is to say it's not an illusion, 

while the beetle runs chaotically through and bites again.

Reviews

[Wafa]

WOW. This is soo good
Well written 🙏🏻

[Kay]

Aw, thank you so much! =)

[jacob erin-cilberto]

i am one of those wishful thinkers...i never want to live simply to die.
I think poets in general at least feel they have one purpose....to write what others may not be able to...
maybe to capture those "beautiful sparks of a cigarette's ash on concrete--"
i bow to your words, Kay.....you are quite good...terrific philosophy in your writing woven through wonderful imagery and metaphor...
j.

[Kay]

I'm extremely flattered by your praise, thanks for the smile it put on my face today. =) To continue along your thought of capturing what others cannot, I think in a way poets are synonymous to cameras; we freeze moments in time so people can continuously go back to savor the occasion. Poetry can go deeper than any lens scope though, haha. While cameras are limited to the past and present, poetry, like painting, can bring a scene into existence.

[Jibey]

A beautifully crafted evocation of the longings for deeper interaction with the world's variety, the sense of being restrained and experiencing the 'beetle' longings... How powerful was that image. I too look out and try to reach and grasp, with moments of possibility and more moments of disappointment... hopes and desires unfulfilled. I felt the lonely vigil..

[Kay]

Very true, we're frequently met with an unquenchable longing that bothers us to the core. It's a feverish and subtle sense of isolation that arises even when you're surrounded by other people. It's comforting though to have others understand and relate to this predicament, thank you for sharing about that and for your kind words. =)

[Jibey]

I too was comforted...

[Lyanth]

Truth wonderfully spun in words that touch the heart of every true writer indeed.
Well written.

[Kay]

Thank you! =)