See, the butterfly,
how lightly it flies, Mother dear,
like snowy miseries, slowly melting
through mystic moments.
With unwavering wings, it flutters,
floats through my merciless memories.
I sit, waiting,
crying for release,
nervous shiver of
hurting heart,
pain, bursting sorrows inside;
hoping to escape impossible imaginations.
I remember, Mother dear,
in this chair you sat,
terminal death
delivered that dreaded day,
and - I waited weeks, while you died-
Now I return,
paranoid disorder, panic,
deathly denial; dreaming,
waiting, wondering why that butterfly
sees me, alone,
knowing
that I must go,
soon.
Death’s messenger with wings,
watching in this waiting room.
A contest entry
- Contemplations: The Waiting Room by Cat.
1300 points, ended November 9, 2007, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
thanks for entering our contest... you've conveyed a sweet piece of work, that is bit overly laden with too much sentiment for me..
but many thanks again for entering ....
G.x -
this is such a delicate poem with such sweet sentimentality- i'm not sure it exactly brings forth the ruddy- dirty- dingy / true to life waiting room experience that we were looking for.. but that said- it's such a pretty piece and i for one am very pleased you were inspired to write it
m -
Beautiful, sad poem! Wonderful metaphor of the butterfly
and it works wonderfully with the final stanza--good luck in the contest!
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