|
| |
Vagabond
Poetry is like medication, in each release of expression,
there is healing - Poet.
In the realms of lost childhoods,
where demons prey upon the defenceless -
no one hears your screams.
I wandered spiritless,
like an abdicated soul,
renouncing my existence.
But the pain kept me alive.
I was an unknown vagabond,
forgotten and begotten,
within an eerie mist of misunderstanding.
Sly shadows with crimson eyes
tracked my silent sighs of sorrow,
so I suppressed sincere secrets -
too embarrassed to express.
Until I fell upon verses from dead rhapsodists,
which taught me to become that poem.
With blessings from pseudonym poets,
wounded words began to burn in metaphors.
Ink engulfed in sizzling lava dripped
in impulsive poetic allusions -
expression led to a catharsis of clarity.
I found an abode in decorative alliteration,
a perfect province in personified prose,
where each stanza became my sanctuary.
Under the shelter of fervent free verse,
I collected every shard of hope,
and placed them in my heart.
Sonnets of sentimental dwellings,
revealed syllables of an untold narrative.
The curse of Iambic pentameter
could not prevent bleeding blisters from healing.
My quill is now a silent juxtaposition
of deafening poetic onomatopoeia.
Copyright ©
Silent One
|
|