Fleetings glimpses of divine light

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Young Adult  |  House: Booksie Classic

Fleeting glimpses of divine light

Your squinted eyes disapprove of me.
The pupils, they say I'm pathetic,
irises pin me a coward.
Unanimously pass their sentence,
tacitly condemning me.
Without commotion I accept.
It's no different to struggle.
I hopelessly surrender to disorientating intoxication.
Gripped forever by that icy gaze,
always watching.
My attempts at escape met no support.
Smiles dreamy and distant are always just out of reach,
fuzzy fantasies.
Here there are only cold, unfeeling glares,
marginalising me, diminishing me.
________________________________________
I look up at those looming spectres and silently plead.
"But don't you know? This is not the way I was meant to be!"
Their answer is calm, deliberately unforgiving.
"Not again." I put out wanly.
And I'm clutched once more by despair.
My mouth bitters, my throat chokes, my shoulders stiffen.
Bearing the weight of intense scrutinity, it's unthinkable to turn my head
lest it creaks on its rickety axis.
A ghastly figure with harsh saucer eyes commands relaxation.
The Scream's voice seems to boom
though it makes no noise at all.
________________________________________
Now I'm on my own, amid a carnival of glittering lights.
A parade of cartoonish robots passes by, animated by comical sounds.
But I feel no joy.
An image flits by
of that chilling banshee.
Icy cold but not shivering,
I'm plagued by dread and despair.
Unsteadily rising to my feet I'm at unease,
as if I'd prefer to be trampled underfoot,
should I only be able to lay on the ground.
Loitering starry over mechanical scraps of dacadence,
my only sympathisers,
my mental faculties are slipping.
I begin to sway and droop into stupor.
________________________________________
From the blackness sprouts a sun-gilded meadow,
seems to torment me with its verdant greens and whistling birds.
I breath a short wistful sigh,
reach down and cusp the incurable wound festering my pit.
The butterflies have begun to rot.
No matter my route yet I'm here and not afraid.
Bitter turned mournful.
I look forward dreamily to the promise of peace.
________________________________________
Shaking myself from my lull,
An ever-present dull ache sprawls out from my neck's posterior,
a manifestation of defeat
ensuring in life I will never be content,
except for in those fleeting glimpses of divine light
and the prospect of nothing.

Fleeting glimpses of divine light

Your squinted eyes disapprove of me.

The pupils, they say I'm pathetic,

irises pin me a coward.

Unanimously pass their sentence,

tacitly condemning me.

Without commotion I accept.

It's no different to struggle.

I hopelessly surrender to disorientating intoxication.

Gripped forever by that icy gaze,

always watching.

My attempts at escape met no support.

Smiles dreamy and distant are always just out of reach,

fuzzy fantasies.

Here there are only cold, unfeeling glares,

marginalising me, diminishing me.


I look up at those looming spectres and silently plead.

"But don't you know? This is not the way I was meant to be!"

Their answer is calm, deliberately unforgiving.

"Not again." I put out wanly.

And I'm clutched once more by despair.

My mouth bitters, my throat chokes, my shoulders stiffen.

Bearing the weight of intense scrutinity, it's unthinkable to turn my head

lest it creaks on its rickety axis.

A ghastly figure with harsh saucer eyes commands relaxation.

The Scream's voice seems to boom

though it makes no noise at all.


Now I'm on my own, amid a carnival of glittering lights.

A parade of cartoonish robots passes by, animated by comical sounds.

But I feel no joy.

An image flits by

of that chilling banshee.

Icy cold but not shivering,

I'm plagued by dread and despair.

Unsteadily rising to my feet I'm at unease,

as if I'd prefer to be trampled underfoot,

should I only be able to lay on the ground.

Loitering starry over mechanical scraps of dacadence,

my only sympathisers,

my mental faculties are slipping.

I begin to sway and droop into stupor.


From the blackness sprouts a sun-gilded meadow,

seems to torment me with its verdant greens and whistling birds.

I breath a short wistful sigh,

reach down and cusp the incurable wound festering my pit.

The butterflies have begun to rot.

No matter my route yet I'm here and not afraid.

Bitter turned mournful.

I look forward dreamily to the promise of peace.


Shaking myself from my lull,

An ever-present dull ache sprawls out from my neck's posterior,

a manifestation of defeat

ensuring in life I will never be content,

except for in those fleeting glimpses of divine light

and the prospect of nothing.

 


Submitted: December 27, 2020

© Copyright 2021 olive tree. All rights reserved.

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Add Your Comments:

Comments

Criss Sole

Beautifully written and full of emotion.
Great poem!

Fri, January 15th, 2021 1:12pm

Author
Reply

Thanks Criss :)

Fri, January 15th, 2021 11:48am

Ann Sepino

There's a good amount of chaos and despair in here, and ultimately a feeling of surrender. I like how some of the lines are so vague when taken in alone, but are given meaning when grouped with the rest of the poem. Thanks for inviting me to read this! :)

Mon, January 18th, 2021 1:12am

Author
Reply

Thank you!!!

Sat, April 17th, 2021 8:26pm

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