Post by Jarlsbane - Michael Ray Cotner on Jan 23, 2008 14:27:59 GMT -5
The Desolation
Winter
in shades of gray
and brown
fields has
the look of
a homeless beggar.
Corn stalk stubble
pushing out of a
rough and scarred visage.
The sky no better
dreary clouds
like rows of abandoned buildings
shabbily white washed,
streaked with dark blotches
lifeless
persistent
day to day existence
trapped somewhere between
in an ever thinning layer of hope.
This is where life is lived-
if it could be called life at all-
on the skin
of a monochromatic bubble
where happiness is confined
by the limits
of human experience.
Sink too low
and be sucked
into a mire
of human complacency
where just a grasping hand
still protrudes-
the only evidence
you existed at all
gnarled fingers twisting
like hard-frost mums
growing in your neighbors garden.
Fly too high
and slam your head
into the dome
of human tolerance
where adverse thought and creativity
are hammered into acceptable norms
Your mind numbed
from constant exposure
to the cold desolation
that marks the unchanging
attitudes of men.
The original of this piece ended with stanza three... I wasn't satisfied with it so I created the additional stanzas to bring a more substantial meaning to the piece. Comments would be greatly appreciated....
Winter
in shades of gray
and brown
fields has
the look of
a homeless beggar.
Corn stalk stubble
pushing out of a
rough and scarred visage.
The sky no better
dreary clouds
like rows of abandoned buildings
shabbily white washed,
streaked with dark blotches
lifeless
persistent
day to day existence
trapped somewhere between
in an ever thinning layer of hope.
This is where life is lived-
if it could be called life at all-
on the skin
of a monochromatic bubble
where happiness is confined
by the limits
of human experience.
Sink too low
and be sucked
into a mire
of human complacency
where just a grasping hand
still protrudes-
the only evidence
you existed at all
gnarled fingers twisting
like hard-frost mums
growing in your neighbors garden.
Fly too high
and slam your head
into the dome
of human tolerance
where adverse thought and creativity
are hammered into acceptable norms
Your mind numbed
from constant exposure
to the cold desolation
that marks the unchanging
attitudes of men.
The original of this piece ended with stanza three... I wasn't satisfied with it so I created the additional stanzas to bring a more substantial meaning to the piece. Comments would be greatly appreciated....
