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Sestina
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It drizzles as the dark clouds pass,
Trees feeding with thirst as it quenches the fruits,
Fruits meant for the colorful birds,
Birds that sing the morning songs,
Songs that wake me up to face the world,
The world that needs trees to get water.
Water however is getting scarce,
Scarce because of the nature destroying man,
Man that now lacks fruits as the birds disappear,
Disappearing because of thirst of the trees,
Trees destroyed by man as no dark clouds pass,
Now the morning is dull because of nature's thirst.
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Sestina
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Around the base of the tree the banks of bluebells flower
Tall and straight but weak of stem, beautifying the forest
Cultivated by nature, leaves for compost, untouched by hand
The flowers are admired by all, gathered by children’s hand
To crush out the perfume from within the flower
Pressed into a book a reminder of the fairy tale forest
Forever in your memory the waving ocean of blue forest
A canvas brought to life by James D Preston hand*
Though missing the perfume of this beautiful small blue flower
Flowers of the Forest natures canvas in your Hand
* http://duffieldartgallery.co.uk/gallery/home/james-preston/?oo=41627715
a link to the painting.
17/02/2013
Form Tritinia
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Sestina
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Land, sky and sea, sing their songs.
Land sings of rich soil, for growing seeds;
as the silvery sea,
sounds its gurgling waters.
It sings a medley to the blue
And cloud-puffed sky.
I lend my ears to that cloud-puffed sky;
listening to its songs.
At first, it makes me feel blue,
but joy quickly fills my heart-seed;
fed by spiritual rain-waters;
that ride the winds from the heavenly seas.
The wondrous, singing sea,
sings back to sky
and I enjoy the waters;
singing those sweet songs,
to the seeds in the soil and to seeds
like me, who get the blues.
As the sky of blue,
sings to the seas
and my seeds;
they stretch leaves to sky
and its wonderful song
intermingles, with that of the waters.
All seeds need water,
to relieve their thirst-blues.
I hum along with the songs,
that ride my souls seas
as they crescendo with heavenly sky’s;
to quench the thirst, of all Gods seeds.
I am a proud seed;
I drink spirit’s waters;
am nourished by Heaven’s sky,
of sacred blue
and silvery seas.
I am grateful for those songs.
I listen to the songs, that nourish all of God’s seeds.
I thank the Earth and seas for their generous, cleansing waters.
No longer do I feel blue and like my plants; I am also grateful to the Heavenly sky.
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Sestina
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All the kids at school?
They say writing poetry must be easy; after all, so many words rhyme with ‘love you’.
If they, with fists covered in your blood, only knew.
An art of letting yourself flow into the page,
Of giving in to the forces that define human nature.
That, at its finest, is writing.
Who really cares about your writing?
Would they notice if you never showed up at school?
No. It’s only a human’s nature
To forget anything unimportant, like you.
Maybe you should just turn the page
And descend into your story you never knew.
Nonsense. Don’t tell me you never knew
Of the many anonymous writing
Their broken souls onto the final page
Of the old history textbook they stole from school
Little postscripts of life left for you
A product of nature.
Nature
Mocks the men who knew
About you
Sitting alone in the attic, writing
About the woes of school
Tear and bloodstains on every page.
The book’s final page
Grown into nature
Far away from the school
Where the first pages flew, they knew
All their writing
Inspired you.
It’s you,
This blown-away page,
A scorned piece of writing
Tossed around like trash by nature.
If she knew
What happens at school.
Writing is what kept you in school
Wither away, you, against your own nature
Maybe you should just turn the page and descend into your story you never knew.
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Sestina
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Lost in the green, leafy space,
Resting on his back out in the country,
The old hermit picks himself up and stands.
He begins the morning trek in the forest
Admiring the nature filled scenery—
The last retreat from the world.
Here peace abounds outside the world,
The man tries to create his own space,
Freed from the concerns of his country.
The trees form a barrier, a final stand
Prohibiting the city from his forest,
Preventing pollution of the scenery.
But bits of the outside defile the scenery.
The sanctuary is attacked by the world
Who slowly chokes the living space—
Unaware or uncaring of the leafy country—
With weapons of garbage, smog. He stands,
Staring at a coke can in his forest.
It stands out on the grassy forest
Floor. It ruins the life-filled scenery.
Almost acting as a message from the world,
Telling the hermit this isn’t his space.
A reminder that they own the country,
And out of a whim he is allowed to stand,
He is given the privilege to stand,
To admire, to enjoy the nature made forest
Whose beauty can be erased from the scenery,
Leaving only overturned land for the world,
Ready to defile the hermit's sacred space
And strip the trees off the country.
The old hermit cries in this country,
Among the trees, the animals, he stands.
Beneath the sky, above the earthy forest
He prays. Since childhood this scenery
Stood out. As a kid he’d leave the world,
Finding a solace in this private space.
But now the hermit’s leafy forest in the country,
The only natural space left on the concrete world,
Is threatened. Unless he stands up for the scenery.
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Sestina
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Love is pleasure and is always patient
In all its pure form it is always kind
Love is considerate and is not jealous
In its nature it cannot be boastful
Real love is neither arrogant nor proud
Love is tolerant and it is not rude
Love has power to quash signs of being rude
When love is provoked it remains patient
In all its achievements love is not proud
Love favours not only those of the same kind
Yet, love avoids all those who are boastful
Love builds you up if you are not jealous
In faith love prospers without being jealous
Subtract love from the heart to become rude
Join the crowd of fools to become boastful
Let mockers mock but stay calm and patient
And work for the good of all human kind
And let fruits of your labour make you proud
In His Highness God has never been proud
Only sinners can make God become jealous
To those who confess their sins God is kind
For while God leaves those who become rude
To a fool God is not always patient
For He condemns every tongue that is boastful
When love is insecure tongues are boastful
As ego pushes lovers to be proud
Snatching their chance to stay put and patient
Instead provoking them to be jealous
Altering them from being good to being rude
Making the world to see them as not kind
To pretend to be nice is not being kind
For when hearts are full tongues become boastful
Spitting words that fit a brat who is rude
A spoilt brat who knows only how to be proud
When people are happy a spoilt brat is jealous
Cause spoilt brats never learn to be patient
Almost all who are patient become kind
But all who are jealous become boastful
If they are proud, certainly they are rude
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Sestina
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I walk the beach in my special dream
led by overwhelming nostalgia
where hopes and dreams are lined in silver
encouraging me to continue into late Autumn
searching for that one special sea shell
a lonely reminder of my true love’s embrace
What I would give for one more embrace!
To me such a prize is not a dream
To think that possession of a tiny shell
would have the power beyond nostalgia
beyond the timeless beauty of Autumn
beyond the value of gold and silver
In reality, my hair has turned to silver
Memories of you I now embrace
in the throes of Winter, well past Autumn
Thoughts of you seem like a dream
Happiness has been replaced by nostalgia
I lie alone in my bed as an empty shell
I start each day donning a hard shell
Just as guarded against those who covet my silver
When conversation warrants, I discount nostalgia
Recommendations of others I am slow to embrace
Each day unfolds before me as a bad dream
Expectations and hope fall as do leaves of Autumn
But change is celebrated in the glory of Autumn
Nature reveals the protective qualities of a shell
We can aspire to be better when we dream
True love cannot be bought with mere silver
Till we meet again, my memories of you I will embrace
There is room for hope through proper nostalgia
Beware of the rip currents of maladaptive nostalgia
Recognize that time falls behind in late Autumn
Hold close friends and family in a warm embrace
Do not seek isolation within an unyielding shell
Do not fear the future even as hair turns silver
Regardless of age, continue to hope and dream
With thoughts of you I will embrace nostalgia
I will revive the dreams we shared in late Autumn
I will continue my silver quest for that special shell
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Sestina
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Huddled among massive rocks,
at the bottom of a barren cliff,
breathing in the strongest aroma of jasmines,
watching hordes of seagulls hover over an abandoned ship;
pensively and attentively spending peaceful times by calm river,
geese see me and slowly approach me to share some of this enthralling wander!
The flow of the river is constantly intriguing,
sometimes slow, other times rushing in the manner of a surge,
making the passing barges resemble timber floating
to their unknown destination, unless the currents change
and they will be crashing on the sandy blanks to dry out and decay;
the same fate awaits the fowls when their bodies become old and die!
Rare beauty I ravishingly behold while my attention is not swayed,
the thickness of the trees won't let the eyes penetrate their wilderness beyond,
only the restless ravens know their habitat and venture themselves in those woods;
I am groped by their mystery, but I dare not enter into the untamed animal' world,
as the woodpeckers continue making their noises to scare away any possible predators...
while moans of creatures are heard: are they attacked by wild dogs, or ferocious wolves?
The glow of the descending sun diminishes and a chill pervades my body,
my Windbreaker is the perfect attire to wear, and not make me feel the breeze's coolness;
the darker colors appearing above give indication of the arrival of a spectacular sunset,
those hues change brightness, and somehow seem to vanish as clouds impose their treat...
a storm wind coming, or is nature imitating our human nature to take control of destiny,
to spoil my peaceful times by this calm river...shouldn't I be angered by their hostility?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
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Sestina
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Things We Think
He said, “Every man is busy earning money.”
She said, “Is there anything more important than love?”
He said, “Is there anything more important than sex?”
She said, “I think we all just fear death.”
He said, “It’s like the Cats in the Cradle we just need more time.”
She said, “I think we really need more space.”
He moved out to a place with more space.
She soon did not have enough money.
She had to leave behind the house and love.
Once they vowed nothing would do them part not even death.
She never learned the aborted child’s sex.
Biologically he still had more time.
He was ambitious, indoctrinated into the ascent of money.
She worked her fingers to the bone, until her death.
He afforded local expensive sex.
She began to view local nature as expansive space.
He did not connect space and time.
She knew what connected it all was love.
In time he found a new love.
In love, she found time.
He equated good passion with good sex.
She found the emerald walls of nature the best space.
He loved the crisp or dirty, rumpled, green of money.
Homeless— she was reprimanded in the rain “You’ll catch your death!”
it's been said,
The root of all evil is money.
Money can’t buy you love.
Nothing is certain but taxes and death.
I don’t know the question, but the answer is sex.
I need my space.
All we have is time.
I’ve learned to give love and learned that is love.
I’ve learned one’s time is worth more than one’s money.
I’ve learned a small space in nature explains all infinite space.
I’ve learned that gender should not be judged by one’s sex.
I’ve learned that empathy slows time.
I’ve learned from the leaves of grass there is no death.
He is more than his money and she is more than her sex.
In death we find love.
In space there exists time.
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Sestina
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O to give from ifs and buts free,
To feel happy, pleased just to give,
Feel good that gift is well taken
And that, receiver too feels good,
Charity’s not to show who’s tall,
Give as, to gift is good nature.
It is flowers’ innate nature
To flaunt fragrance and spread it free,
For ego’s sake nor to feel tall,
They give till too wilted to give,
By birth bestowed with this trait good,
Happy, their fragrance is taken.
Lamps like, its light’s lead is taken,
It is the lamp’s born-with nature—
To smoulder till they are no good
To do so, they wish light’s spread free,
For, lamps are born their light to give,
And care to feel good nor yet tall.
A cloud never shows stature tall,
Has always given, scarce taken,
Born with a benign bent, it’d give,
To rain, drain its inborn nature,
Its virtue’s to give, and give free,
It loves to find earth green and good.
Man condescends to give, feel good,
To show off his pedestal tall,
Seldom is his charity free,
Weighs: what in return be taken,
Give so as to take— his nature,
Born is he more to get than give.
Birds be or beasts, their best they give,
Not for any altruistic good,
Because that’s their innate nature,
Not to show off their stature tall,
Yon of things given and taken,
Birds be from all worldly ways free.
Alas, head rules and heart’s not free
To decide, head all commands give
In this world by head be-taken.
____________________________________
Sestina | 01.08.2006, revised Feb 2023 | charity, heart
Poet’s note: Sheer instinct makes birds and beasts look after their newly born without expecting anything in return. But we as humans look forward to our children reciprocating when we are old, not do things in altruism. Why? Because man is being increasingly ruled by head, not heart, this Sestina feels.
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Sestina
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Sometimes I get lost in my dreams,
just wanting to escape this stressful life.
I lose my way in a garden full of flowers
and search for never ending love.
The sun shimmers from the sky in the summer
glorifying the beauty of nature.
Peaceful, unharmed, and experiencing nature
while I am in God’s country, it is not a dream.
The cotton clouds and fresh breeze of summer
fill my mind and body with love.
Woods full of animals; I didn’t recognize all the life
that surrounded the creatures like trees and plants
growing every day like the blooming flowers.
The howling, chirps, and grunts of animals in nature
searching for something, could it be love?
Only pure happiness survives within a dream.
Danger lurks and protection is the goal of life.
These living beings emerge for the summer.
A hoot from an owl in the summer,
who is hidden in the dark trees like buds on flowers.
Up high, away from predators and saving its life,
it looks down upon the traveling beasts of nature.
At night, the owl keeps eyes wide open and doesn’t dream.
In the morning, eyes closed perched on a branch to love.
A deer is every camouflage hunter’s love.
Killers mostly keep away in the summer.
A cornfield, apple tree, and salt-block dream,
the elegant animal waltzes through the flowers.
The brush welcomes the creatures of nature
to bed down and hide from the bullets of life.
You ask yourself, “What is life?
and respond, Full of living and love.”
To experience life and the miracle of nature
reminds me of a perfectly warm day in the summer
full of a variety of exotic unspoken, colorful flowers
of which will always define a perfect dream.
I will always be a part of nature for it is my life.
The open window in my dreams leads me to another love.
Sweet fragrant flowers pedal me back to the home of summer.
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Sestina
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Animal Freedom
A Christmas walk in soft sun of winter
Across crisp fields of umber and green,
A sharp breeze blowing with freedom
On their faces, aglow with the hope
Of seeing one again – a bird; their bird,
Soaring and diving defiantly so.
The eagle. Powerful, swift and so
Free. Wings outstretched on currents of winter
Warmth, rising higher than any other bird.
It’s golden feathers shimmering over green
Hills and clear blue skies, in the hope
Of spying prey, running in a last bid for freedom.
They looked and walked and talked in freedom,
Enjoying the country lanes and paths in so
Carefree a manner; such a rich land of hope,
Bursting with creatures alive in the winter
Meadows: robins, rabbits, hares, a green
Woodpecker, and many a chattering bird.
They paused to rest and listen to bird
Song and breeze, relishing in the freedom
At the heart of nature, so fresh and green;
When suddenly, they saw a bush shaking so
Violently. They stopped and stared, the winter
Wind? Too strong. They watched in hope
Of seeing something curious, or in the hope
Of discovering if this at last was their bird,
Hunting untamed in the wilds of winter.
They approached, careful not to intrude on the freedom
Of the wild, but all they could see was a fluttering so
Urgent, flapping wings, a rubbed-raw leg, a thread of green.
A blackbird was trapped on a branch by green
String; frantic, desperate panic, yet hope
Shone in its eyes, pleadingly so.
They spoke softly, carefully untying the bird,
Which flew off to the wind in a cry of freedom.
They felt proud, liberated, in a wonderland of winter.
They ran home for dinner of green sprouts and festive roast bird;
Bred in darkness and stench, no hope of daylight or freedom.
Incarcerated, deformed, wounded so bad, in a long-hardened winter.
Spare a thought for your turkey this Christmas…
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Sestina
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Omnipresent is Joy
Barefoot morn walk in garden
Soothing sight of silky blanket of grass
Morning dew globules sparkling
As if bathing Blades in freshness
Greenery splashed on earths canvas
Buds swinging, radiant Natures canvas
Eager to unlock youth freshness
Flowers gleeful as butterflies perch joyfully
Esoteric on pollination in garden
Fragrance radiating, amidst grass
Aroma filled atmospheres sparkling
First Rays splashing golden on natures canvas
Aiding photosynthesis,energy joyful
Plant and human balancing ecological freshness
Plants in orderly arrangement in garden
Seeds germinating in silence with invisible sparkle
Sacrifice, seed for tree, uneven blades for uniform grass
Mountains, rocks forever fresh
Treasure of minerals,herbs,grass
Wall to rain bearing clouds,life of many gardens
Mother to many rivers, oasis in natures canvas
Treasure of minerals, herbs, grass
Seat of saints for Peaceful joy
Protecting ecological sparkle
Changing of Seasons add sparkle
Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter, varied freshness
Spice to atmospheric environment joy
Enthusiasm for new clothes, cuisine, party on grass
Nature bestowed different seasons canvas
Knowing, human love variety as desert love garden
Compassion garden
Love dotting rest of emotions as on blades dews sparkle
Inner light dispelling darkness in lifes canvas
Smiles, hugs, kisses, pats, way forward fresh
Individual joy as gardens each blade of grass
Spreading garden of cosmic joy
Futile is garden without dews sparkle
Cheer is soul of lifes canvas, inner search only lends freshness
Inner bliss smooth as silky grass, search futile for outward search of joy
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© Hitendra Mehta
(Entry for Members Contest - "Joy to World” by Deborah Guzzi)
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Sestina
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She holds you spellbound, tempts every sigh,
her voice sedutive by its lullabye,
Her meaning envoking the unspoken word
Ever tender the call of her lovesong
This angel who thrives on the air of your breath
The movements of her heavenly rhythm
Closer calls the invitation to feel her rhythm
Succumb to her female sigh
Ever so gently she releases her breath
The gentle sleep of her restful lullabye
Bequiled you fall to the music of her lovesong
With nothing more than the unspoken word
What secret does she keep so closely guarded? the unspoken word
The mystery of her movements swaying to her rhythm
How could a mortal man resist such a lovesong
His resolve given in a surrendering sigh
Returning his words in anticipation of her lullabye
He barely manages to catch his breath
His chest bursting with the urgency to take a breath
Her eyes adoring yet still there's the unspoken word
Her song intensifys a passionate lullabye
The wind caressing nature to respond in rhythm
His need urgent as he pleads with loving sigh
He know's the ending of this Angel's lovesong
This captivation held by the chorus of her lovesong
How could such an angelic understand yet allow such loss of breath?
Again his strength fails him as he hears the relentless sigh
A language alien yet familiar, the assurances of the unspoken word
Delicately the harps resound the perfect rhythm
As his soul escapes to listen evermore to the enchanting lullabye
The sensations of her sound unbearable as she continues her lullabye
What kind of music is this she sings, this immortal lovesong
That holds a mystery unto itself, the defiance of her rhythm
Still he holds to his last dying breath
As she witholds the saving grace of the unspoken word
And all he can do is sigh
As this lovesong continues to play, immersed within the lullabye
His breath weakened to the faintest heartfelt sigh
Surrendering completely to her rhythm, the beauty revealed, the unspoken word.
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Sestina
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Alberta “Jean,” the different one was she
since her birth and among her family.
This redhead born of parents with dark hair
had felt herself an odd plain duck; in prayer
she’d kneel and on her father’s farm was awed
by nature. In the fields, she’d pray to God.
With fervent adoration for her God,
she searched for truth. A maverick was she.
She left her parents’ church, for she was awed
by teachings not those of her family.
The Gospel she discovered through deep prayer
dismayed her folks, as had her bright red hair!
Upon her birth, because of her red hair,
her folks had joked she wasn’t theirs, but God
would lead her to a new life. On a prayer,
she traveled west. A restless soul was she -
the one to leave her home and family
to find her niche; by her bold move I’m awed.
By all the things she did back then, I’m awed.
She joined the Navy. Jean, with bobbed red hair,
would meet my dad and start a family.
Great trials came to her. She called on God.
To go back home then was the answer she
was given after long and pleading prayer.
She had to leave my dad. I know through prayer
this answer came to her. Again I’m awed
because with us, her four small daughters, she
became a single mom. She wore long hair
up in a bun, worked hard, had faith in God,
and married someone else with family.
Eight children then were in our family.
My mother taught her stepkids about prayer,
affecting all our lives. Her trust in God
is never-ending, and we all are awed. . . .
She’s 80, widowed, and still has red hair
and goes out dancing!! Rare indeed is she!
With faith in God, Jean raised a family.
No need of fame has she, for she has prayer
and grandkids awed now by her still red hair!
* see about poem for more info on Jean
*I tried to make this one like a rhyming Sestina. Instead
of choosing just any six words to repeat at the end of
each line, I decided to use three pairs of words that
rhymed with each other. The position of the words
changes from stanza to stanza, but I think the rhyming
aspect still holds strong.
Written 2/13/12
Today her hair is salt and pepper and she just turned 89!
For the 'Mother -' Contest of Constance La France
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Sestina
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Cross Species Awareness
Beneath a calm ocean, man watches a shark.
They are same in size, but one has advantage.
Man is wearing a wet suit and long swim fins.
Shark is naked and is not bearing its teeth.
Water passes silently through gills of stealthy predator.
Bubbles rise from apparatus of explorer.
A camera and lights fill hands of explorer.
Teeth and cunning fill front of shark.
Black tiger stripes and dark eyes of predator
intensify beauty and exclaim an unrevealed advantage.
Locked behind its inquisitive nature are rows of sharp teeth.
It circles the diver, dipping and bending its fins.
A menacing fin on its back and long pointed side fins,
the shark does not appear as clumsy as explorer.
A man clamps on to breathing device with his teeth,
watching effortless movements of a curious shark.
There seems to be some wariness in the predator.
Its large dark eyes seem to measure any advantage.
Any threat to the sea’s occupant is from surface advantage.
The wary man’s feet rest on white sand trapped in fins.
He could kick and flap beneath waves, but is no predator.
He is either a very brave or very stupid explorer.
If the sea is a playground or battlefield it belongs to the shark.
If it decides, the king of the deep can bear its teeth.
It can open its gaping mouth and expose rows of teeth.
It can clamp on to soft flesh with an easy advantage.
Such things happen often in the life of a shark.
It swipes its tail side to side and climbs and dives with fins.
The only help for the diver is another explorer.
A spear gun or repellant may offend the predator.
There is not much comfort offending such a predator.
It will only find another place to sink its teeth.
It is a distracting thought for an underwater explorer,
to learn and gain knowledge under this creature’s advantage.
It may not speak; it doesn’t have hands, but does well with fins.
Ruling the depths, it is a majestic presence this shark.
A vicious predator with acute senses and sharp teeth,
the shark patrols oceans riding currents with strong agile fins.
The explorer has the advantage of meeting it at peace.
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If you are intrigued by this work read and review G. D. Master’s book, “Interpretations,” free in PDF format on SmashWords.com. Simply enter “gd master” or “interpretations” in the search bar of SmashWords to find it.
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Sestina
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Dim light shines through the widows of the old house
long since empty, where only dust dances in the air
and a lone mouse scurries across its scared and dirty floor
But sometimes at night, when a lonely wind moans and cries
faint echoes of the past are heard through out the rooms
as though while sleeping, the old house dreams of a lost time
In the parlor, a faint ticking from a wall clock as it counts time
while a childs laughter is heard as he runs through the house
chasing after the ghostly bark of a dog as it runs from room to room
and in the dark unused kitchen, the scent of fried chicken fills the air
recalling Sunday dinners and happier times, before the dying cries
the screams that echoed, and bright blood stained its polished floors
Now, all that is left is a faint red stain on its once prestine floors
broken and rotting from the wear of mother nature and passage of time
where the only true sound heard is a crows harsh and croaking cries
as it flies over the delapatated but once proud and stately house
leaving behind one black as soot feather floating in the warm air
to land on a window sill, as though looking in at the cold lifeless rooms
But still the house stands against time, and listened to each of its rooms
hoping to hear laughter once more, hurried steps across its wood floors
trying to shut out the screams of terror that still hang in the stale air
the feelings of hate, and anger that never seemed to disapate with time
pushing at the heart and soul, the very timbers of the sad and lonely house
until each small breeze that swirled around it sounded like broken cries
It doesn't know why the last sounds within its walls where terror stricken cries
or why the sounds of childrens laughter are no longer heard within its rooms
it only knows that it took one single day to make of it a horror house
all dead and empty with blood stains upon its dirt encrasted floors
held within an eternity that seemed to stop within a tick of time
and lingers there upon a breath of stale and purtrid air
Not so long ago, it stood so tall with pride and stately air
but rumors stirred with tales of ghostly lights and muted cries
till none would stand upon its floors or stay a minutes time
for all would tell of ghosts and such that walked its haunted rooms
and blood that stained for all of time its wooden floors
Such a sad and forlorn air that haunts its each and ever room
that now wrings cries of sorrow from the rotted creaking floors
Where once apon a time there stood a loved and happy house
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Sestina
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Long ago, before she was ever hunted by the beast,
She had only drank from the cool river of freedom.
One fateful day it happened; she was caught
unaware. Her body, suddenly foreign, to move was a struggle.
The harsh truth, lesions, white, many, & irreparable.
Multiple sclerosis. Many losses, her heart was shattered in sorrow.
Her mind, now pregnant, birthed new sorrow.
She felt herself collapsing beneath the weight of the beast.
She no longer knew who she was. She was broken, irreparable.
Drowning in a tumultuous salty sea, she forgot the taste of freedom.
There wasn’t a single second, of a single day that she did not struggle.
In woeful fugue, she set snares for herself, long after she’d been caught.
Her once fluid thoughts, now marred and muddied having been caught.
Perpetual physical lockdown had swelled an ocean of sorrow.
I became unclear to her if it was even worth the struggle
Held by the omnipresent weight, and the unrelenting grip of the beast.
Had she not had a taste for it, she wondered, would she even crave freedom
Who she once was, was she still there, or was the damage irreparable.
Pessimist by nature, she felt this chronic was irreparable.
She blamed herself, a guilt-trap set SNAP again she was caught.
She hated that she felt helpless, she lamented her freedom.
Down she sunk until she could not breath, suffocating sorrow.
You thief of everything, you scarring, numbing, painful BEAST
She cried, she screamed but she never gave up though she ceased to struggle.
It was a futile endeavor to waste her precious energy to struggle.
Her clarity, her emotional health, those were not irreparable.
It occurred to her, while deep inside, to explore the belly of the beast.
She happened upon elusive pieces of herself that hadn’t been caught,
One by one, laboriously she freed them from beneath thickened sorrow
The bits of herself, now back in place, she inhaled deep fragrant freedom.
Her new self, while not her old self, was a self freed from struggle.
She wove thick ropes to climb across bridges she once thought were irreparable.
A testament to her strength as she stared, unwaveringly at the beast,
She defiantly held her middle finger up, refusing to be caught,
In the doldrums of such a weakened state of sorrow.
The taste, imprinted in her mind, she could now replicate freedom.
A state of mind, freedom is never lost or irreparable.
If a snare is set, and you struggle wildly when you’re caught,
Always remember to never forget sorrow is sustenance to the voracious beast.
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