The Poles
There lays a Mist upon my mind,
Casts my thoughts all in a haze.
The coldness chokes all memories
Of good and splendid days.
Only leaving the terrible behind.
It swirls in shifting patterns,
Ones of hate and doubt and sickness.
It flows down deep and it coats my heart.
It strangles - the pressure of its bleakness,
So thick and leaden, it churns.
Transformation of person,
Sight is blurred by clouds.
No light or end or exit can be found,
All joy is cast beneath its shrouds.
Like quicksand, struggle only worsens.
A slip, a fall, a new revelation.
The Mist lifts of its own accord,
And at its chosen time.
Regardless how deeply it has moored,
Upon it's departure arrives Elation.
Thank the stars, for it has gone!
The world regained warmth and color,
The light seems here to stay!
Forget the Mist and all its danger,
Overlook the cycle wherein I am a pawn.
Bliss beyond compare,
Every sense is at its highest,
And the muses make their home.
Seeing entirely at once, all the while in blindness.
Beauty is personified and everything is fair.
A circle complete, again the Mist seeps.
Elation submits and starts its branching.
Sometimes faintly, sometimes loudly,
The insatiable lust of life adjourning,
But ever constant time it keeps.
Thus the turning, ever changing,
Yet predictable remaining.
The poles!
Sanity sometimes abstaining.
Repeating, complete, yet never paling.
- Roxie F. Prince
August 14, 2010.
No comments:
Post a Comment