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Open Poetry #44
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The long day
| Open Poetry #44 |
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The long day |
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RedStoneEB Senior Member
since 2003-06-08
Posts 772uk 
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As the dawn is; dew against the lips while rain pushes through its form-- roses lighten, crisp red to be consumed in touch; feeling the pressure of droplets, sinking low towards the ground in a gentle bow-- oh tearful roses I understand your burden and watch leant on a window-sill as you let it go. Thinking with intoxication those fond thoughts overlooked, shredded through the murmured voice-- hid in the layers where soft silk and paper calmly compare—easily torn. The water has ran from your petal-tips out late into the night—not lost but framed in icicles adapted by this cold that has waited and waits for loss and losses. At the bottom of the mind metaphorical as a brother to shadow—wanting to be noticed--blackened, when the lantern finally comes to rest near its side. Tucked into the flesh are these sensors that delight in light strokes, and the soft air blown from lips—beneath these an unarmed dormant expression; mourning innocence-- misery, bitterness, sinister. Ancestral. Weak minds and strong legs—isolation to the overture of speech, must this mean the spirit is vile when it acts in gestures, and actions of repression? As curiosity allows the person to wander off in the fields; to admire the little inanimate details of grass swaying by the gentle nudge of wind. And seeing no-one come, allowing flowers to be flowers, and self ideals and ideas to eclipse that of influence-- for there is none when the familiar scenes are strayed away in another form by another person. How it is that flesh is fragile—as differings push against each other, an insects wings fluttering so fast as the hearts Beating comes close to its comparison. Slightly punishing itself with each flutter—as the tips rub and the long quiet—is softly turned away from silence. Revealing a flaw within the ideas of what it is to be felled, fallen, gone in the ways of love; a star-gaze not upwards but inwards—out there where imagination has to make the rest of the journey for that trembling of deepness to occur, looking at the dreamed written down words of the soul. This is not the way we scent our beings—not of the perfume from the bottle, nor of the fill from lemons in the fields-- no it is a scenting of our natural self, rushing the nose along the neckline—whilst inhaling the long deep breath. Indeed I have gathered droplets, and still am gathering what will overflow and make me bow, to release the burden—and become the sculpture that we be a able revisiting memory; a feather floating down from the sky-- from the form of a grand form of feathers, knowing more will fall in the years that have to pass me by— but wonder will I see them passing. Where will the eternal dusk set; while imagination has formed that great afterness—since then have I feared leaving without all my feathers in place-- I just don’t want to be the dropped burden incomplete. |
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| © Copyright 2009 Lee Hepworth - All Rights Reserved | |||
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Margherita Member Seraphic
since 2003-02-08
Posts 22236Eternity |
A very significant and introspective poem, dear Lee! Loved especially the first stanza, but the whole "long day" sounds great. Love, Margherita |
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