Mortal Coil

 

Turning around, to adjust my direction,

An open hall with a wall at the end

Is green on each side, and high in perfection

 

The wind blows its calm or I wouldn’t know

For somewhere along the wall at the end

Grows a most dead and unswaying tree bough

 

Turning again, to attune my intention

An open hall with a wall at the end

Builds further away but lost my attention;

 

I think birds sing songs or some sort of tune,

That echoes its sound (off the wall at the end)

And swims like a dove through the air as they croon,

 

Sweet goldilocks sit in the banks of my nose

Where no leaves (like those on the wall at the end)

May lengthen their reach to a place beyond prose,

 

I brush my cold hand against the wall’s side

To feel (in place of the wall at the end)

Warmth only this maze of a mess could provide.

 

But there lie unknown truths at the end of it all,

At that place over there by the wall at the end,

That place I only see but cannot reach it at all. 

 

So I stand here instead, ever revolving in route,

Never not facing some tall wall at the end

And wondering in doubt if there lives a way out,

 

Never allowing myself to be filled with despair,

When I look on in thought of the wall at the end

Fully aware that there is a chance I will err.

 

Remaining alive in constant want of release,

I am forced to still stare at the wall at the end,

While dreaming so softly of that possible peace…

 

Turning around, to break free of my tension,

I see the open hall with a wall at the end

That once more enthralls my attention.

Reviews

[Natasha]

Dear Mr. Crowe,
This poem inspires. I wish to quote you.
Will you allow it?

Love, dearly and sincerely,
Your most loyal fanatic