Ecclesiastes

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 07, 2017

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Submitted: September 07, 2017

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What makes the bones of this

Woman I ground into paste,

The body I

Stir into ink so the

Words on these pages have life?

 

I don’t have an ending --

It seems to be

Chasing at shadows of who I’ll become,

Elusive yet still pressing on,

Determined to know

If I’ll join them someday

 

What makes the mind of this

Woman I stretch into paper,

Exposing the

Thoughts so imperfectly whole?

It withers to ashes,

Then grows in a flame

Fated only to burn, then die

 

I don’t have an answer,

But still I can’t help when I

Question the depth of the pit where it’s

Buried,

Meant to be silenced,

Meant to be cloaked in a

Veil of flowers and

Neatly concealed in a

satisfied  “Happily Ever After”

 

This body knows not of its essence, and not

Of the ground to which it returns --

Its heart is too fragile,

Too easily broken,

With Mysteries not to be solved.

 

-- yet still it leaves traces

Of hope that might stir

In the restless heart of another --
 

What makes the will of this

Woman who knows it is

Pointless,

But tries anyway?

 


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