I dreamed a maze
with too many fingers,
youthful singers,
impressionistic conversationalists,
wrapped in chaos,
clinging to service,
entangled by truth they tried to capture,
forbidding rapture
to share this circle.
This woods was warped by unseasonable ambition,
a lack of contrition
craving sensational seduction,
pretending production,
as masturbation in mirage,
clever collage
of self-seeking goal,
replacing freedom,
far from greener search for summer,
obscuring leaf
to dance her branches.
Give my one more chance to prune my lines
in simple syllables
of tree and forest.
I open eyes of last night's failure,
lashes eager,
leaving meager,
standing tall in morning meadow
to sounds of early, rising feather,
the still of love
before the music,
this solitude of ten,
I treasure,
prancing grace
in poetic pleasure.
In a list
A contest entry
- Picture inspired by Spiritual Poet.
700 points, ended June 13, 2008, 28 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
Amazing language use though I hate to admit I didnt understand it all. Thanks for entering. God bless you, Mark
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"standing tall in morning meadow
to sounds of early, rising feather,
the still of love
before the music"
Yes. Beautiful words, dear Scribe. Your writing continues to evolve beyond memories of magic into the realm of mystical moments. Good luck in the contest, my Friend. 
Wanda
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