Barren ire in the midst of ignorance,
as humanity's ego inflates in every step
scratching the bare breasts of a sin.
Empathy croons as a forgotten memory,
still tracing her hands on the future;
as the wind fingers autumn's facet
entwining within it's every word,
the white rose was my own soul
trapped in a bouquet, of the purest red.
Sodden hands of ecstatic wisdom,
pale within the touch they inlay
as unmannered fingers stray upon my fray,
and harshly smoothen my edges,
the faults were merely accusations
bizarre occults of self-satisfaction,
but the damage was done,
as in the moment I was plucked
into the bared world,
I was made an: outcast.
A contest entry
- PIF ~ Themed by Naridill.
500 points, ended January 24, 2008, 6 entries
Silver trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Criticism Is Very Much Welcomed -- I Am Here To Learn
Comments
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You are beautiful - your words are reflection of your soul and I always enjoy reading you.
Thanks for entering,
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*bows* thankeeeessss!!!
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Son, this is profound indeed. So full of amazing imagery and excellent description bringing us to the perfect ending
"I was made an: outcast."
Wow...you surpassed even yourself this time...this is excellent. Hard-hitting and honest. Thank you for sharing. Love you always.
Mum
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"the white rose was my own soul
trapped in a bouquet, of the purest red."
White roses are my favourite.. all white flowers. But wow, the depth of thought and emotion here and the level of vocabulary you achieve (and that for someone whose first language isn't english)..wow again.. this poem just speaks of your talents.
A compelling write, deep and meaningful. And that last line.. it hangs there - such power in these words.
~ Nicolette
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