How did I end up here with
This constellation of hooks? Unloosing their murderous fingertips,
They beckon like gold--that glittering
Lie, that treasure.
I sit on a mountaintop of stars.
The hooks stare at me as I do at them. They are faces.
This is my holiness:
These dead blue eyes of sky, these
Familiar faces,
This silence.
The night will pass.
With morning comes the pink eyes
Of a mother.
Author notes
I wrote this on Thursday, 8/28. This is my first poem in months because of a (very annoying) complete writers' block that began right after my previous poem "Home." The version of this poem that I posted is my 2nd draft (I deleted what was originally my 3rd stanza that came before "This is my holiness"). Both positive and negative feedback is welcomed. In-depth analyzations and respectable constructive criticisms make my day 
. And if you're actually reading all of this, thank you for putting in the time, effort, thought and interest .
Comments
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seems im a little late to the party, but anyway..
i really like this poem. it flows so well that i feel as if this couldve been written in one fell swoop, rather than the hours of revisions and rewrites that it may have taken. no easy task.
though i can grasp a picture here, i cant help but feel like im trying to look at my watch at 3 in the morning. the time is there, i just cant bring my eyes to focus on it. in all honesty, though, im not sure id ever want to fully understand it. i enjoy the mystique that comes with this kind of poetry; the kind that only the author could fully understand. it leads me to wonder about more than the substance, but also what was running through your head.
you have a true talent with words. i can only hope that you make it no secret
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