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This poem is about a boy with an inferiority complex and as a result he is unable to get close to his lover. This enrages the boy, rendering him bitter and full of implacable rage.


Submitted:Feb 18, 2009    Reads: 92    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


You

a marble colossus and I

a dove feather,

pure and white and as frail and

delicate as the dew drops of a May morning.

Which lay, poised

upon the blades

of the lush green grass.

Precariously they wobble,

to and thro,

among the winds of the cruel

premature Spring.

You

talk and talk

- a myriad of feeble notes

which

rise to a crescendo and

echo, echo,

across the wall of the grave,

the cave

I retreat into.

I long to reach for you.

My hand trembles, unable

to pass through my invisible shell.

My

shell of tangible memory.

Memories long rotted

and fragmented. Fragments

which shear my reality.

Unable to distinguish

the real from surreal;

your lustrous ivory

drowns in a fearsome crimson.

No longer do I know you.

Kaleidoscopic images coalesce

in a collage, a mirage of you.

What are you doing to me?

Why? Why?

I, I, I,

I close my eyes and retreat

into myself. Reality

blends with fantasy and I

run and run

through my fields of paper flowers and

watch my purple sky fly over me.

Your

musical voice,

as beautiful as a glissando,

fades to a hush

which falls and rises,

foaming to a wave.

A wave

which engulfs me and the

fragile cores of the Narcissus.

Which bleed and bleed

their self love into the

vast waters of the icy

North Sea

and rises,

rises to the surface.

Gaze upon the reflective surface

- featureless, not caring. It is

exactly what you want to be.

No.

No.

Wrong.

Look again.

Again.

Boil and boil

the water goes.

Watch

as the reluctant scarlet

seeps to a raging crimson.

From the depths

of this evil hell

I rise

with unending fury

and my demon tail

and punish the cruel without fail.





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