[untitled]

My feet could only lift me inches high,

my thoughts go beyond the trees

to hurtle where the rain began

and all my desires longed to be.

 

 

Why does the wind not hollow my bones,

play its woeful symphony?

The melancholy I am to feel

broods mute, swallowed deep.

 

 

These hands cannot do much but hold,

still things slip in between;

what is worthwhile grasping

is caught by a net ten fingers cannot weave.

 

 

What kind of eyes are these

so easily entranced, enticed, deceived,

rendering a fool of me?

Bar them shut for a blind reprieve.

 

 

If this form emulates an image divine,

then it is crude mimicry,

made for entertaining the loftiest of courts,

overseen by the most perverse of kings.

 

 

The frog will never be a prince;

I will never be at peace.

Reviews

[Mike P.]

the way you've articulated the idea you have here is just great. something that resonates with me for sure. but those last two lines just kill me. however i feel like the frog sometimes! lol. wonderful piece you have here. bravo.

[Lesley Wood]

I love this one it is beautiful in it's rhythm and meaning and imagery!

[Leesah]

Stunning..poetically perfect

[Juliet]

The last two lines are gripping. "This frog will never be a prince; I will never be at peace."

When my sister died, I was thrust suddenly into a world of nightmares, the world as I had known it, dissolved with the funeral. I have been struggling with the images you portray here; the images of a god on a throne, either perverse or apathetic to our struggles here below.

"...what is worthwhile grasping
is caught by a net ten fingers cannot weave.
What kind of eyes are these
so easily entranced, enticed, deceived,
rendering a fool of me?
Bar them shut for a blind reprieve."

Thank you for iterating those fine lines of thought that my own synapses cannot place together. Beautiful and flowing. Just lovely.

Wonderful piece.