Stained Glass Illusion
You to me were stained glass window
Untouchable, out of reach, remote.
Would that I could have joined you there
More likely than that you joined me here
Delusions of a mind’s wishful thinking
Condemned forever a realist to be
Wrestling, all the while dreams crippled
Writhing bereft, amid human debris
Why oh why? Protests my soul
Does exquisite torture my portion remain?
Your breath misted the air, pulse cadent beneath your skin
Yet no entwining hearts beat here as one
Alas, shall such a moment ever be…
When any outside that window I touch, taste or even see?
When we try to define the essence of poetry we may start from a place of negation such as ‘not prose’.
Alternatively, we may think of ‘not literal’ or ‘non-factual’. We may associate it with the inspirational side of life, or the mystical or hard to express, ‘ineffable’. Poetry maybe all of those things or none of those things. Whichever way we seek to understand or approach it, it always tells a story. This is why I call it storied verse.
There is no right way to tell a story. Yet sometimes, we cannot tell ours, unless we do so poetically. Every poem ever produced is a story of some moment that was born and which aspired to live forever, beyond the decay of the utterance of its words.
Here, in my poetic writings, I seek to give eternity space within which to witness itself, reflected in one of its children’s frame of experience. Here is your opportunity to overhear eternity’s song to itself, through one of its vessels of clay. My hope is that eternity will meet with you on the way and show you a story that you had never imagined existed. A place called home, beyond the decay of each earthly moment.
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