Like an Eagle soaring,
For a moment visible,
Through a break in the clouds,
By the sun illumined,
I once caught a vision of hope.
Yet here I lie,
A leper in my filth,
Clawing through the soiled vestments
Of my own imagination,
Filled with lust
For power and fame,
Delusions and illusions
Of a twice forgotten mirth.
My mind is as a rosebush
Masquerading as a thistle
(and prickly to boot),
Filled with the question—
My purpose in the garden—
When all I have is
Bad fruit.
Seasons fade, yet I remain.
I could be a daffodil
And dance beneath the clouds.
If only I could,
If only I would,
If only,
But I prefer not to have the will to try.
I laugh,
I cry,
Wet drops of suffering
(glistening and troubling)
Burn at the corners of my eyes
Filling me with fear,
Filling me with doubt.
If only I were a songbird,
Flitting, flying, free.
I, then, could sing
The mystic song
That’s part and parcel to my soul,
But I am man—not man—a boy.
I simply prefer not to.
"A leper in my filth,
ReplyDeleteClawing through the soiled vestments
Of my own imagination,
Filled with lust
For power and fame,
Delusions and illusions
Of a twice forgotten mirth."
I really, really, realliy, like this. Vivid imagery, and evocative.