Feo's Verse

I am reading you a bed-time story.

This isn’t a fairy tale,
a happy-ever-after
or a fight for glory.

There are no demons, 
no wizards or knights,
just bitter enemies and the remnants of 
relationships that never went right.
Remember as I read, as the
words roll away
from the tip of my tongue,
forming every word I say
that this is your life story.

You were born in a wrap of gold,
so fine, so rich, you thought 
you’d never grow old.
You slept in it, you wept in it,
danced in it, cradled it close
until somebody took it away.
They left you wounded, weakened
and torn, the rape of the senses in
which you were born;
taste of flesh, 
smell of death,
sight of morning,
sound of breath,
feel of warm blood.
You once were 
wholesome, good.

You adapted to the dark;
no longer a child,
you befriended the spider,
the snake, the shark.
Where others ran scalded
you branded your mark
and you stood, tall
before them all
and you roared.

Now you let down 
your eternal hair,
see behind the curtain
a face once fair,
now withered 
and weathered
like old wood
though you show no care;
Beauty is the true form 
of ignorant death,
and badness the twin sister
of good.

You read all you can
and write even more,
perpetually hungry for
any release;
your only escape,
the only open door,
your real imagination.

Inside you slow-dance
with the man, the myth,
whose face forever eluded
your desired romance.
He raises you with his smile
and you wait, wait,
the hook in your lip
tugging at its bait.
You walk those dark lanes
between wood,
between river,
to allow yourself reprieve.
But the current is strong,
the trees start to quiver,
patience is courage’s new test.
There is no rest,
no receding of those
lines of grief.

You leave at will,
go over the hill,
to the graves of 
sleeping faces;
they greet you 
with silent, 
solemn graces.
In sleep, you die a little 
each morning as the
sky sends a misty breath.
You fall in and slip out
of each peaceful death,
imaginary realities
and desperate deities
fade to black.
You wait for the day
to come back.

There was only ever
one love for you,
but it wasn’t meant to be.
The fairy tale you lived
and died for
drowned itself at sea.

You conceal your weaponry
inside your clothes,
anticipating war.
Forever more,
you will be waiting.

Waiting for allowances.
Waiting for meaning.

The tranquil things
that once put you at peace
are now the instruments
of your battles.

Reviews

[Richard]

it's incredibly great :)

you explained that this wasn't a fairy tale but it read just like one and made me feel in one even though it is very poignant and dark and specific it still just was great as a tale or on it's own

[Shaunna Harper]

Thanks so much! Very kind of you :)

[Richard]

very welcome :)

[Stefon Napier]

This is a great work. The tone of conviction keeps me wrapped. Clearly this comes from a skilled poet.I'm not sure that I can agree with all the absolutes in this poem and I'm not sure why the speaker appears so defiant. I didn't think the first line was needed because I wasn't sold on the bed time story part. It felt like it contradicted the rest of the poem. That aside, this was a great read. You'll be published shortly if you haven't already been.

[Shaunna Harper]

Wow that's the nicest thing I've read in a while :) thanks so much. I did have two poems published in a literary mag, and one short story, but nothing major!

[Steve]

Filled with irony.....I like it.

[Shaunna Harper]

Thanks pal!

[Steve]

You have real ability. I see that.

[Shaunna Harper]

Very sweet of you - thanks! :)

[Steve]

You are welcome. I'm happy you are here.