Young girl, full of song, full of Furies
Lies in a pool of fermented ruin.
She's mute, her mouth is full of quicksand
But the rest of her is empty
Laid to waste and rot and live
The ashes, spread around her,
Testament to her follies,
Cannot revive her, cannot feed her sullen hunger.
Where is the child, the tiny thing that whistled ghost songs to the wind?
She's dead, she screams
Obscenities that fall, veined leaves, flat on the ears of dream people.
The child, she committed
Herself to dropping rocks onto
Her fragile head, her patchwork dreams
Run away, runaway
Forever down the path of dreams.
And now, he loves her
He catches her before she hits the ground
And never questions, never condemns
The madness that surrounds.
Where is Mother, where is Father?
Can they hold her in their arms?
Can they stroke her fears?
Can they dispel tears
Or magic them away on wings of the nightmare?
Author notes
Not finished.
Comments
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wow.. you haven't posted on here in a long time. This is really disturbing, J. You should call me and talk to me soon. A: I miss you. B: I'm sure you got stuff to vent about. 'member, I loves ya always. But that aside, beautiful ink flow as always.. you know I adore the way you write. The words themselves are painted with brush strokes, instead of scratched out and smudged and sweaty. You always create art instead of literature. Love it.
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I've tried getting a hold of you recently, but I guess you've been busy
Thanks for your kind comments. I've been somewhere between up and down the past couple of months, you know how it goes! I miss you, too, and I suppose I'll be talking to you soon enough. Take care in the meantime!
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Great work in Progression
sounds like a g i know... sometimes i think- i'm the only one who knows what this feels like- crying comes out of my mouth- literally: in tears. like a muffled scream of anger and irritation, aggrivation and just plain tired of trying... this piece makes sense to me from what i view it as, as i read it... and what makes me like this poem even more after reading it, is that you didn't place this piece of writing into a category...
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I hate categorizing the things I write. I based part of this poem on dreams, and the other part on memories. The screaming bit actually comes from a dream I had recently. Maybe when one is generally reserved in waking life they resort to violent, volatile reactions in dreams. Thank you for reading and commenting on my poem--it's the first complete one I've written in years.
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