Buried underneath the pen
There shone a mighty light
But the power has been cut
And I cannot find my sight
Mounds of clutter fill wall to wall
And search, I try to find
But the power securely hidden, secluded on the vine
On the verge of tears I fall,
The sense of time is up,
And I must wait until another comes to dig it up.
An eon has come to pass
And methods start to fade
As another is forgotten
Less effort to be made
My memory fades quick
Of the places I have seen
And what I have to excavate
Seems more and more a dream.
A contest entry
- Whatever by Phineas Red.
900 points, ended September 24, 2007, 14 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
the "pen" in the first line is like "pig pen" not, a writing pen. this is technically an untitled poem like many of shakespeare's sonnets. Also, it is about searching within yourself. I'm sturggling.
Comments
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I like the fourth stanza, with the idea of time passing and things changing.
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