A poem that's sort of growing on me
This is the product of about 7 minutes' work during the Taking it Home session on the last day of May Intensive. I read it aloud at the end of the session and introduced it as "The worst poem I've ever written, but there are a couple bits I like."
After re-reading it again the other day, I'll revise that opinion and say it's not the worst thing I've ever written, and in fact it's grown on me a bit. That trend is in pretty much direct opposition to the usual trend with stuff I write, so I might as well inflict it upon others.
(I have no talent for titles)
Heartbeats
Heart beats
Driving the engine of my body
Propelling me forward into Faerie where there is no time
Breath
One, and then another
And another, and...
My past falls away with each of them, and I am strong in my vulnerability
And now it is time to go, says Oenothera
Through eyes clouded by tears
(mine alone? Somehow I think not) our eyes meet
Go Home.
How can I stand in my dream when I cannot speak it out loud in the first place?
And yet,
Am I any less surrounded by ten dreamers than I am by thirty?
Somehow I think not
I am haunted by this place, and by possibility, and by all of you
I fear I will never live up to that unspoken dream
And if I do, will I recognize myself upon waking?
Are the marks of Faerie so easily washed away?
Somehow I think not
Surrounded not by dreamers tomorrow, but by memories
And, perhaps, by dreams
It's time to get to work.
After re-reading it again the other day, I'll revise that opinion and say it's not the worst thing I've ever written, and in fact it's grown on me a bit. That trend is in pretty much direct opposition to the usual trend with stuff I write, so I might as well inflict it upon others.
(I have no talent for titles)
Heartbeats
Heart beats
Driving the engine of my body
Propelling me forward into Faerie where there is no time
Breath
One, and then another
And another, and...
My past falls away with each of them, and I am strong in my vulnerability
And now it is time to go, says Oenothera
Through eyes clouded by tears
(mine alone? Somehow I think not) our eyes meet
Go Home.
How can I stand in my dream when I cannot speak it out loud in the first place?
And yet,
Am I any less surrounded by ten dreamers than I am by thirty?
Somehow I think not
I am haunted by this place, and by possibility, and by all of you
I fear I will never live up to that unspoken dream
And if I do, will I recognize myself upon waking?
Are the marks of Faerie so easily washed away?
Somehow I think not
Surrounded not by dreamers tomorrow, but by memories
And, perhaps, by dreams
It's time to get to work.