Garden of Irony
He breathes between winks in migraine pulse,
throbbing against the challenge of an overly lustrous day.
Watching halos fall through broken sun-glass hue,
he wonders how much more the wind will break.
Limbs rest in the arms of an aging garden,
rotting and yet, still beautiful.
Ivy swims beneath the man’s shadow,
curling its way up, and opening its breast
toward the promise of nirvana.
He bends, takes a branch
in his hands and ponders
the irony of life, and its
retirement.
It feels fake in his hands,
so he flicks the bark
off its back,
letting its naked remains
fly in
another direction,
toward a rusting chariot,
where it will be
delivered unto a bed of flame.
-James Kelley 2014, All rights reserved.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
