(no subject)
Written about The House of the Spirits.
Amanda
If hell is other people,
the house is a haven of the Supernatural.
She blows through like a cool breeze
in the heat of the bodies that aren’t there.
The jangles of her bracelets and trinkets (5)
like the bones of the dearly departed;
The black of her hair
the darkness of nothing beyond.
Lost in the fog of war, discontent, and death,
the cloud grows that surrounds her, (10)
concealing her pain.
A new life lost to a man who was a boy
and a girl who was a woman.
The life ripped from her loins,
she lay accepting her fate (15)
cradled in the arms of a man who she
did not understand.
Mother to a son that is not hers,
instinct often wins out,
and protection is her mantra. (20)
Her lover is a creature of fleeting passion.
Easily forgotten, she drifts away,
unaware of the hidden eyes that watch her;
until even these are lost in Time.
What is lost is always found again, (25)
the recognition seen in a twinkling of an eye.
A past long hidden does not easily resurface.
Hardly recognizable behind the decrepit exterior
is the exotic temptress of yesterday.
The drug having played a game (30)
of Metamorphosis.
The drug is a harsh lover, no worse
than the men who use her like a hand towel
to be tossed aside.
Behind those old eyes, weathered skin,
needle tracks, tattered rags,
is a child in need of comfort and vitality.
Destroyed by years of life’s cruelty,
she returns to the beginning
at the End.
-Courtney Graham
Amanda
If hell is other people,
the house is a haven of the Supernatural.
She blows through like a cool breeze
in the heat of the bodies that aren’t there.
The jangles of her bracelets and trinkets (5)
like the bones of the dearly departed;
The black of her hair
the darkness of nothing beyond.
Lost in the fog of war, discontent, and death,
the cloud grows that surrounds her, (10)
concealing her pain.
A new life lost to a man who was a boy
and a girl who was a woman.
The life ripped from her loins,
she lay accepting her fate (15)
cradled in the arms of a man who she
did not understand.
Mother to a son that is not hers,
instinct often wins out,
and protection is her mantra. (20)
Her lover is a creature of fleeting passion.
Easily forgotten, she drifts away,
unaware of the hidden eyes that watch her;
until even these are lost in Time.
What is lost is always found again, (25)
the recognition seen in a twinkling of an eye.
A past long hidden does not easily resurface.
Hardly recognizable behind the decrepit exterior
is the exotic temptress of yesterday.
The drug having played a game (30)
of Metamorphosis.
The drug is a harsh lover, no worse
than the men who use her like a hand towel
to be tossed aside.
Behind those old eyes, weathered skin,
needle tracks, tattered rags,
is a child in need of comfort and vitality.
Destroyed by years of life’s cruelty,
she returns to the beginning
at the End.
-Courtney Graham