Is it an eternal furnace of coal?
Is it the murky dark night of my soul?
Is it a fathomlessly hollow well?
Is my ego as perilous as hell?
Is it power and strength in their fullness?
Is it existence in its absurdness?
From this coffin, could I ever return?
Herein, would I perpetually burn?
Are days in ego unendingly nights?
Does affliction, herein, like serpents, bites?
Is it the inner self's whirlpooling sea?
Is it an insidious trap in me?
I muse on ego and find no retort.
I find no way out of this self-built fort.
An angry sky looms outside
as I sit beneath the window ajar.
The breeze of spring flutters in by my side.
I hear a blackbird sing from afar.
It's early morning as I sip my tea,
just watching the little garden of mine.
An array of colors spread fathomlessly
about the space so fine.
I look forward to getting out upon my land
to mow and hoe the lawn 'til anew.
The smells of cut grass and earth in the nails of my hand.
Just lots of pretty breathing flowers; weeds are but a few.
Then I can sit amongst my window once more
and gaze upon the new face of my garden so vivid.
Where I smile subtly at the finished work in amour.
As I watch the flowering bulbs not so timid.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.