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(From A Page)
(From A Page)
I thought I’d dip my quill.
I asked him what;
had pierced his heart
That had brought him;
wailing,
across the many seas.
Hoped to find a glimmer;
of that spark that feeds.
He found my question lacking
“What should move a poet’s heart
that his eyes can’t see?”
And thus the parched bard
said to me
“What? All the sun touches
wasn’t enough to set you free?”
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More Posts from Neutral-divinity
Muse what you do to me
Muse O’ what a bruise to me
Construe a visage
rendered past so cruel to thee
What shadowed path brings you true to me
Symbols & Matches
Blood & Dry casks
Vistas crossed on weathered maps
errant am I
Vainly pursuing
When in steady quiet
the torrent carries
your voice to me
RL friend posts his own poetry, art, and photography. Give him some credit for his practiced craft. Bit late in doing so myself, either way good stuff!
You stand there, the thick morning fog obscuring your vision.
The trees around you tall and overgrown, the sandy soil beneath your feet packed from years of use.
Steel and wood.
Eventually you hear it.
The unsteady warbling wail of that great beast.
Quiet at first, then louder, until it is upon you.
Its bright eye cutting through the haze.
It roars, lunging toward you at incredible speed.
But you know you are safe.
It's contained, confined to its thin piece of the land, as in some ways you are yours as well.
You turn and watch as it retreats.
Trundling off on its way.
The forlorn wail and the clattering that accompanies it drift off back into the ether.
Two beams of steel stretching out into the fog, the only mark that it was here.
You walk up and pick up two copper coins, now fused into one.
And walk back down to the little town you'll call home for the rest of your days.
The great iron beast has its path and you have yours.
The two intersecting only on mornings such as these.
Maybe one day you'll join it.
As a sojourner into whatever is beyond here.
Off in the direction of the setting sun.
Maybe tomorrow.
Or maybe you'll just put more coins upon the track.
The trouble about man is twofold. He cannot learn truths which are too complicated; he forgets truths which are too simple.
-Rebecca West