Fatal existence,
not knowing my own soul,
I finally crawl into my grave,
little left to mourn.
No one to weep my passing,
blooms that I planted have no petals.
Waves of regret wash my beach,
ship sailing without captain,
lost spectator in self-made arenas,
chances pass,
my painted image grows
old and weak.
I tell you too much-
Now you see my self-portrait,
confession of paint on humanity’s canvas,
nothing else.
Author notes
Photo: by poet.
Thomas was my great-great grandfather. His grave lies here in this photo. He was murdered in the centre of Australia and buried in this dry hole of hell.
A contest entry
- Quickie by earthangel33.
475 points, ended August 27, 2008, 13 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 8 of 8
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A deep psychological study, in my opinion. The final thoughts of one who seemingly had squandered much of life, or at best used it selfishly. The discoveries here are revealing and stand as a testament to readers to consider their own daily choices.
"paint on humanity's canvas"....particularly nice.
Well done, poet.
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This is so bleak and sad. Imagine that, murdered and little or nothing to show you even existed.
I felt it real Richard. Good job.
Paul
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Confession of paint on humanity's canvas - I liked that. Nice work here Richard. This is a deep probing verse that tickles the uneasy pieces we all feel.
Well done. ~Pamela
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This is a very moving poem with the added drama of your families information. I like the way the words bring the reader to the place and you connect with the author. Excellent!
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oh this is a sad write the metaphor was wonderful my friend, i enjoyed the read, best of luck in the contest
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Thank you Uniquely
It is less sad when I tell you that it is pure imagination, not a true account at all. It is possible that the person buried in the picture felt this, because he was killed in a brawl amongst strangers, and far from his home in England. -
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ah i see i was fooled !!! damn you lol
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One wonders about the thoughts of people who lived long ago - what was life about, for them? If we try to put ourselves in their place, we could learn something about ourselves! However, there is an essential mystery that remains.
The desolation of this place has determined the poem. I am left with a sadness, that in four generations, none of us will be missed.
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