From the seed I've grown
Looking up you have shown me
To live life Ive known
form yet unmolded
Clay to hand I unfolded
No golem just girl
With this you struggle
You know the troubles of life
The sexes, trust love
You lead tender hand
Held on with hope you lead me
Valleys dark and light.
© Ben Burton 7-23-2015
What worth poetic words
Of grandeur so sublime
Inimitable verse
True scholars recognize
What worth poetic words
So roundly demonized
Which flagellate teen nerves
Inure unmolded minds
What worth poetic words
If less than five percent
Have read and said, not heard
The meaning or intent
What worth poetic words
If told in simple rhyme
Elitists grow perturbed
But, OH, the rank and file
Make simple poets smile
Silky soft sand
a zen garden
dutifully raked
organized
but fluid.
Rock solid concrete
a straight sidewalk
purposefully aimed
determined
and rigid.
Silky soft sand
a seaside beach
eternally shuffled
chaotic
but natural.
Rock solid concrete
a fluted pillar
anciently built
weathered
but stoic.
Silky soft sand
a pliable mind
persistently curious
unmolded
and alive.
Rock solid concrete
a zealot view
insistently settled
decided
and dead.
Trudgingly we came through this March
"Twas the longest yet so far,
Within its days a world of bloom
Was seen with eyes anew.
Daily rose to see it turn,
To pass another play,
Reciting subconscience dream learnt speech.
Realities true come by to see
A Place that's been always there,
Time comes up and round a curve
The space unmolded.
A Dream Clutches An UnMolded Heart, Where Sleepless Nights UnFold.
You Walked Away UnTammed And UnLeashed Memories That Fade, Only
ReDefines It's True Moment Under A Shadow Of ReFlection.
Among These Children Who Don't Know; You Won't ReTurn, A Little Heart
Cracked Can't ExPlain Oh Where; Oh Where Did DADDY Go?
How I crave the warmth and cool
Hop in a puddle, then a pool
Sit on a throne, then a stool
How I wish I can go to school
Half of me broke off, and has gone away
My life stays an unmolded piece of clay
I want to hop around and play
with others my own age
I smell the air of thyme and sage
Wish me luck,
Maybe I will someday
Each inspiration, a different star point
tenderly dipped in leaded glass
and allowed to dry.
Star skins unmolded birth devotion,
breed insurrection,
and are extremely edible
(though they never pass through you)
They go down sharp and imbed themselves
into your throat, your lungs, your very being.
Each point of inspiration a delicacy,
a mood swing in transit,
a feast.
Spread me this feast in a famine,
starving of long burnt out star shine and glass
I am filled up at each point of abandon,
glowing white heat and still spinning...
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