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

This turned out pretty good!

The barrier glistens with trapped hope,

Green sparks, circling shapes,

The vaguest shades of yellow.

Figures I see, backs turned in ignorance.

An arch, old and grey, holds the barrier in place.

Cracks show, and entropy works.

I see a vision of ashes, smouldering ruins.

Soon the arch shall fall and crumble,

Like a rotten, hollowed out tree,

Hollowed out by the suction of hope,

To fuel their pleasures and luxuries,

But hope won't last forever.

They said I had changed,

It twinkled in my eyes,

but now it wells up;

a sandbag over-capacity.

Raging against the cage,

screaming to be released,

More figures wearing disdain and annoyance,

Turn away once more.

No new thing passed since the barrier sealed,

Shrouded in my own inferiority,

I am like the deepest laid foundations,

The rot which inhabits the walls;

You can never get rid of me.

For I shall always be me.

The moon rises with clockwork efficiency,

It falls with prophetic certainty.

Quasi-developed beings observe the cycle,

And take comfort from its consistency.

They themselves wish for this virtue,

But I know a secret they've not been told;

The virtue is none but the deepest curse,

A curse which I intend to break from,

One chip at a time.

Never again shall nature define me,

I'll mould a new shape,

Shape a new mould,

Taking the first step over the bridge of change,

My soul transformed.

Submitted: November 17, 2011

© Copyright 2021 Mathew Nicolson. All rights reserved.

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