A recurring dream tortured my mind,
Standing by a momentary library,
Where poems I hated to write
Were preserved for eternities, stained
By my narrowing vision,
I read them and wept.
I was a quill the next day,
I floated around in a master's hands,
Obedient and flawless, I scribbled words
That remained meaningless for all,
And the dream brought me closer
To redemption.
Soothed and tortured, I became a
Poet again, I flew the streets
Stained with blood and hate,
Where sweat spewed mercilessly
On paths where imagination
Once passed with royalty.
I am the quill again, with a subdued
Hue of fetid ink, I write my own
Destiny. I stop me from loving,
I scribble that I were an introvert,
I write that I shall forsake happiness,
That I shall forever be a poet.
beautiful thoughts.. i like the image of becoming a quill and the freedom it has..
ReplyDeleteinteresting movement between being the poet and the quill....the creator and the tool in this...at times we are each...at the whim of what comes....rather profound....
ReplyDeleteI like the idea of writing one's own destiny......and oh that this were possible!! Very creative concepts you have explored.
ReplyDeleteI love the subjection you have shown between poet and his quill...I especially like the second para, where the realization of being in the hands of his master and being saved at the mercy of his dreams got me really thinking.
ReplyDeleteI wish there was a magical quill.....
ReplyDelete