"roused" poems
When first shower of monsoon
Touched the emotions
Of my innocent heart
Its strings began to ring
Drops of rain began to open
The windows of my heart
And with its tender touch
Heart began to pour out
Pearls of positive thoughts
Now everything seemed positive
Seeds of inspiration
Sowed by a rain shower in my heart
Began to reverberate
Everything now appeared inspirational
Seedlings of love and compassion
Began to germinate and
Fresh winds of peace and humanity
Started blowing in my heart
Monsoon shower roused
A new hope to live and
Left a lasting legacy
Every corner of my heart
Heart bells started ringing exaltation
And raising wave of happiness
Monsoon shower taught the heart
A new art of living
Darkness changed in brightness
The heart began to rejuvenate
The monsoon shower infused
A new life with peace and prosperity
And kindled the lamps off
Bright and prosper tomorrow
(Written by Kishan Negi)
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 11:25 AM UTC
The finest singer in the sea
I heard upon this morn
And in that strange sonorous tone
A universe was born
The low melodic wailing touched
And roused me from my sleep
As the humpback lithe and languid
Made a turn and sounded deep
And as my mind awakes it turns
To whales large and small
To the snowy white beluga
The canary of them all
The clicking bursts of ***** whales
And the California grey
The fin whale speaks across the sea
To those a world away
The short and longfinned pilot whales
With whistles quite complex
The striking graceful orcas
Speak in different dialects
But it is the great blue whale
That makes the loudest cry
Though it is far too rare today
With such an awful why
But on this wondrous morning I
Am filled with joyous glee
That God has given life to whales
And gave to them the sea
Cori MacNaughton
24Oct2000
Jun 11, 2015
Jun 11, 2015 at 2:20 PM UTC
Remember well, O breathless kiss
While melting oneness in your skin
Soulful eyes of passion’s abyss
Hold me close to the dream I'm in.
Trembling hard within our embrace
Fearlessness settled on your hips
Tenderness spread across your face
The Heaven found upon your lips.
The whispered comfort in your ear
So satisfied in binding trust
Broken down walls that brought us near
Two souls beyond two bodies' lust.
Ne’er more perfect did two unite
Released from tortured fallacy
Compassion roused to star the night
A night surpassing fantasy.
Feb 14, 2019
Feb 14, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
The oxygen secreted from the walnut tree,
the snap-pole green beans growing
up the side of the rusty garden fence, and
bags of aluminum cans stored in the shed
with the old cash registers from the antique store.
These are the golden frames caught and
edited onto organic film, etched into grey matter,
projected from a foggy lens onto reflective marble.
We abandoned the clubhouse because of spiders;
they took the place for themselves after a storm.
Our new abode was the patch of grass between the
walnut tree and the fence in the back corner of the yard;
shady, rough terrain from fallen walnuts, and
the grass always had a slight dew in places.
"The place where the snakes live" is what we called it
when we were sprouts; now we could catch them in both hands.
One night, the wind blew over the shed doors;
flimsy, sliding rail, aluminum thing.
We slinked in and got to play with the old adding machines,
foreign tools, jars full of door hinges, and
rusty hand-crank egg beaters.
Eventually, the roof of the shed collected so many years
of twigs, walnut husks, and foliage fallen that
tiny trees began to pop their heads up from the clutter.
Crickets underneath the gutter guards-
two types; the black singers and the
ones you have to dig for that will draw blood
if they get a hold of one of your fingers.
Sometimes, if bravery was roused and boiling,
we would drift closer to the railroad tracks
in attempts to catch yellow jackets, or even hornets.
One popped their stinger into the back of my neck.
Mar 24, 2015
Mar 24, 2015 at 9:06 PM UTC
It was a hundred years ago,
When, by the woodland ways,
The traveller saw the wild deer drink,
Or crop the birchen sprays.
Beneath a hill, whose rocky side
O'erbrowed a grassy mead,
And fenced a cottage from the wind,
A deer was wont to feed.
She only came when on the cliffs
The evening moonlight lay,
And no man knew the secret haunts
In which she walked by day.
White were her feet, her forehead showed
A spot of silvery white,
That seemed to glimmer like a star
In autumn's hazy night.
And here, when sang the whippoorwill,
She cropped the sprouting leaves,
And here her rustling steps were heard
On still October eves.
But when the broad midsummer moon
Rose o'er that grassy lawn,
Beside the silver-footed deer
There grazed a spotted fawn.
The cottage dame forbade her son
To aim the rifle here;
"It were a sin," she said, "to harm
Or fright that friendly deer.
"This spot has been my pleasant home
Ten peaceful years and more;
And ever, when the moonlight shines,
She feeds before our door.
"The red men say that here she walked
A thousand moons ago;
They never raise the war-whoop here,
And never twang the bow.
"I love to watch her as she feeds,
And think that all is well
While such a gentle creature haunts
The place in which we dwell."
The youth obeyed, and sought for game
In forests far away,
Where, deep in silence and in moss,
The ancient woodland lay.
But once, in autumn's golden time,
He ranged the wild in vain,
Nor roused the pheasant nor the deer,
And wandered home again.
The crescent moon and crimson eve
Shone with a mingling light;
The deer, upon the grassy mead,
Was feeding full in sight.
He raised the rifle to his eye,
And from the cliffs around
A sudden echo, shrill and sharp,
Gave back its deadly sound.
Away into the neighbouring wood
The startled creature flew,
And crimson drops at morning lay
Amid the glimmering dew.
Next evening shone the waxing moon
As sweetly as before;
The deer upon the grassy mead
Was seen again no more.
But ere that crescent moon was old,
By night the red men came,
And burnt the cottage to the ground,
And slew the youth and dame.
Now woods have overgrown the mead,
And hid the cliffs from sight;
There shrieks the hovering hawk at noon,
And prowls the fox at night.
5.9k
There she awaits-
In her jewelled palace far from faded-eyes
A lily sheltered from the blanket of white;
the air perfume-light from the blossoms,
and a yearning heart -
Lo!
The silver songs of Robins; the heralds of Winters
twirl free.
Lo!
A Hyperborean wind is roused from slumber
and spreads its wings. Leaves drift down are
kissed by frost; lakes, the woodlands placed
under your trance. And your vision came to
be - a polished world on a fair day.
And at a pleasant hour-
Aug 5, 2018
Aug 5, 2018 at 4:47 PM UTC
Doe eyed, staring, steaming.
Chocolate, toffee and coffee,
Cream and buttermilk
Or black and white.
Roused at dawn
To yield the warm succour
meant for their long dead offspring
Morning, mourning for natures call of motherhood.
Nov 15, 2012
Nov 15, 2012 at 3:56 PM UTC
I am the oak bent or' and aged
That once stood brave as natured raged
the lines were drawn the battle staged
and man with time compassion caged
I am the field scarred by each track
that shared the weight of soldiers pack
and too felt pain from shell and flak
and those gone forth no more came back
I am the breeze scented with death
as noxious gas inhaled as breath
sent young men blind without the f
and yet their leaders ears were deaf
I am the rain washed or their blood
and roused the poppies from their bud
to honour all whom fought for good
but died before they ever should
I am the cross the epitaph
the stolen kiss the chance to laugh
when young men walked the broken path
of anguish and the aftermath
I am the note that says beware
tread lightly here with tender care
for fresh eyed boys with features fair
bore arms for you now your weight bare
I am the oak with shrapnel scars
that guides their souls to waiting stars
where commoners prop up the bars
toasting their faith with three hoorars
Dec 3, 2013
Dec 3, 2013 at 9:55 PM UTC
Strolling down the dusty road
I reached the path of an abode.
The Black Shamrock an Irish pub
I stopped inside for a pint mug.
One mug topped off with ale
That next to Guiness Stout
Looked pale, A Pilsner in the glass.
And down the bar a drunken fool
Sat staring with blurred eyes and drool.
A sassy colleen tended the bar.
And if your hands were free,
They wouldn't get far, for
If they reach to the wrong place.
You'ld a bar wenches Slap.
Across your face, and a spot of red
For all to see, that you got the Hand.
Of Molly McGee, a fiddler Bowed.
An Irish Jig, and a penny whistle.
Carried the tune to the drunken crowd
Within the room, a game of darts is made
While cribbage by old farts is played.
And the pints are emptied by the hour.
As the clock rings out in the churches tower
As drunks are Roused, and doors are closed
Old friends will stumble down the road.
All in an Irish night
Nov 10, 2014
Nov 10, 2014 at 5:17 AM UTC
She let the tape go—
on record
one evening for an ordinary hour
Five years later, we play it back
for laughs after dinner—then as now
“Remember how the stove door screeched
at the house on Olive Street?”
And our voices!
Phoeb’s, lighter–tired
wrapping the nine’s tables in elastic yawns
like flash cards in a rubber band
“Phoeb, your pitch changed so—
while I turned...”
to run water in the tub
lamenting the **** of Two
in frenetic escape of hands
Unruly!
Running rebel taunts in Time’s strict face
who would not dare disturb her dawns
only mine—
Roused by the first round of another day’s
ring of twelve
digits that insist
like uniform with apron waiting
on ironing board that’s never folded
Now the **** of Two cries out
Exultant!
of success in *****
Then, Oratorio for Soap!
The splashy version
with endless bubblings of “Rocky Baby!”
and obbligato of “Where’s Shampoo?”
in jubilant glissadal plunge
an octave through vocal whoops!
…I had not thought
she hardly talked
but sang and squealed or whined in tunes
Her voice lay open to her soul
a roost of piercing humming birds
small of words
but filled with sweet and want
incessant wings and things to say....
How could we have forgotten?
“Are these your boots?
Your clothes laid out?”
From sound and talk, we still can hear
frost phantoms
in winter window rattles—then as now
And Phoebe remarks how one voice
didn’t change though—
“Still talking to herself”
We laugh
and let the tape go....
Feb 4, 2017
Feb 4, 2017 at 12:31 AM UTC
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Was weary night and day
For half his flock were in their beds
Or under green sods lay.
Once, while he nodded in a chair
At the moth-hour of the eve
Another poor man sent for him,
And he began to grieve.
'I have no rest, nor joy, nor peace,
For people die and die;
And after cried he, 'God forgive!
My body spake not I!'
He knelt, and leaning on the chair
He prayed and fell asleep;
And the moth-hour went from the fields,
And stars began to peep.
They slowly into millions grew,
And leaves shook in the wind
And God covered the world with shade
And whispered to mankind.
Upon the time of sparrow chirp
When the moths came once more,
The old priest Peter Gilligan
Stood upright on the floor.
'Mavrone, mavrone! The man has died
While I slept in the chair.'
He roused his horse out of its sleep
And rode with little care.
He rode now as he never rode,
By rocky lane and fen;
The sick man's wife opened the door,
'Father! you come again!'
'And is the poor man dead?' he cried
'He died an hour ago.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
In grief swayed to and fro.
'When you were gone, he turned and died,
As merry as a bird.'
The old priest Peter Gilligan
He knelt him at that word.
'He Who hath made the night of stars
For souls who tire and bleed,
Sent one of this great angels down,
To help me in my need.
'He Who is wrapped in purple robes,
With planets in His care
Had pity on the least of things
Asleep upon a chair.'
2.8k
Oh! pleasant exercise of hope and joy!
For mighty were the auxiliars which then stood
Upon our side, we who were strong in love!
Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive,
But to be young was very heaven!—Oh! times,
In which the meagre, stale, forbidding ways
Of custom, law, and statute, took at once
The attraction of a country in romance!
When Reason seemed the most to assert her rights,
When most intent on making of herself
A prime Enchantress—to assist the work
Which then was going forward in her name!
Not favoured spots alone, but the whole earth,
The beauty wore of promise, that which sets
(As at some moment might not be unfelt
Among the bowers of paradise itself )
The budding rose above the rose full blown.
What temper at the prospect did not wake
To happiness unthought of? The inert
Were roused, and lively natures rapt away!
They who had fed their childhood upon dreams,
The playfellows of fancy, who had made
All powers of swiftness, subtilty, and strength
Their ministers,—who in lordly wise had stirred
Among the grandest objects of the sense,
And dealt with whatsoever they found there
As if they had within some lurking right
To wield it;—they, too, who, of gentle mood,
Had watched all gentle motions, and to these
Had fitted their own thoughts, schemers more wild,
And in the region of their peaceful selves;—
Now was it that both found, the meek and lofty
Did both find, helpers to their heart’s desire,
And stuff at hand, plastic as they could wish;
Wcre called upon to exercise their skill,
Not in Utopia, subterranean fields,
Or some secreted island, Heaven knows where!
But in the very world, which is the world
Of all of us,—the place where in the end
We find our happiness, or not at all!
2.9k
my soul was hibernating
until gently roused by Your love
Jul 27, 2014
Jul 27, 2014 at 9:02 AM UTC
she has stars for eyebrows
her phonetic smile says so much more
tightly wrapped in the grey gaunt gauze of daylight
eyes still closed
i wait arms breadth away for her...
to breath
to open
while mind touches upon her journey
while pieces parts of her epiphany are spoon fed
like chocolate grace into my feasting and willing heart
i am the succulent afterword
to her speech now uttered in its completion
...with its grand street ballroom
upon which we
all in our time of giddy laughter
need to dance like royalty or fools
...with its back alley rainwater
that washes away all those terrible yesterdays
i am the sweat mongerer who waits
for her sleeping to be roused...
transcendental she sleeps
with a soft drink
while i nourish
in the folds of her slumbering dreams
Dec 23, 2014
Dec 23, 2014 at 4:01 PM UTC
**Hear each body cell speaking zen to the next one
result of self oblivious meditation opening-
numerous effulgent channels to sources of light in universe;
the meaning of the epithet, "jewel in the lotus" becomes evident,
body becomes all eyes and ears like that of a martial art expert's in combat
(remember the chants immortal, the Guru's gift
that roused the coiled serpent 1)
soul, the essence, is liberated from all bonds,
limiting cycles of birth and death
stars on the firmament of inner sky is the brightest ever, rain light
"Aum" the cosmic hum, resounds sonorously in the core of consciousness
life and death are words without any meaning in this state
liberation could never be expressed in words or by any other means
a never changing quietude dawns, existence moves to a limitless space-
beyond dream in deep sleep and further to the realm of mysterious.
Existence becomes a reality eternal, beyond the three dimensional space
that state is an experience, now a moment is a millennium ,
gently slips in to cosmic consciousness, that swirls to envelop**
Dec 23, 2013
Dec 23, 2013 at 12:55 AM UTC
***** of echoes, the virile resonance quaking lust -
Throbbing caverns shudder to ****** inciting vestal musk
Entranced of nocturnal bedevilment - barefaced in galactic greens,
Spores ethereal yet concealed to the Queen
Sumptuous omphalos; her ecstatic womb engulfing the bloom,
Carnal reckonings devoid of Mosaic release as panting creatures swoon
Vigorous pollination morphing the nectarean sheath
Roused stamen shrivel in an animus induced retreat
Again we'll rise to salute our idol
In burning continuance:
Fertility extolled
With pleasure recompensed.
Nov 20, 2012
Nov 20, 2012 at 7:51 PM UTC
You like my bird-sung gardens: wings and flowers;
Calm landscapes for emotion; star-lit lawns;
And Youth against the sun-rise ... ‘Not profound;
‘But such a haunting music in the sound:
‘Do it once more; it helps us to forget’.
Last night I dreamt an old recurring scene—
Some complex out of childhood; *** of course!)
I can’t remember how the trouble starts;
And then I’m running blindly in the sun
Down the old orchard, and there’s something cruel
Chasing me; someone roused to a grim pursuit
Of clumsy anger ... Crash! I’m through the fence
And thrusting wildly down the wood that’s dense
With woven green of safety; paths that wind
Moss-grown from glade to glade; and far behind,
One thwarted yell; then silence. I’ve escaped.
That’s where it used to stop. Last night I went
Onward until the trees were dark and huge,
And I was lost, cut off from all return
By swamps and birdless jungles. I’d no chance
Of getting home for tea. I woke with shivers,
And thought of crocodiles in crawling rivers.
Some day I’ll build (more ruggedly than Doughty)
A dark tremendous song you’ll never hear.
My beard will be a snow-storm, drifting whiter
On bowed, prophetic shoulders, year by year.
And some will say, ‘His work has grown so dreary.’
Others, ‘He used to be a charming writer’.
And you, my friend, will query—
‘Why can’t you cut it short, you pompous blighter?’
2.4k
*He is
My Azure Dreambird,
(The Sovereign of Songbirds)
That soars upon
Skies of Resonance.
His sapphire wings
Weightless by valor,
Hallowed every doubt
That
Cursed my shadow
Until credence reigned.
He is
The Musicality of my Soul,
That I climbed as
A stairway
Into
Gates of Aether
Upon
Porcelain keys
Of an impearled
Grand Piano.
His sound emittance
Ascended in frequency until
Pitch became subliminal
For height
ceased to be
Height,
And depth,
Ceased to be
Depth,
It was
Ineffable harmony
And resolution became effortless
With
The touch of his hand.
He is
The Wings of the Dawn,
A Sweeping Rapture
That raised
Me
Beyond the stratosphere
Until graced by
Untarnished embrace
Of the Baptistery of the Sun.
I burst
From Light’s Intemerate Womb,
Renewed and
Gazed upon Terraqueous Gaia
Then for once,
(Yes, for all eternity)
Succumbed to
Faith in the Transcendence
Of his tender affections.
Woe was existence
Before His lightwaves radiated
Within my heart,
For when I purged my pulse
Of that quaking rhythm
And
Hollow cries
Upon his ears,
He stood moved
And remained
Doughty in his devotion
To me.
In that moment
I fathomed his soul
Glistened
O, for he had not forsook me.
I bear a pilgrimage.
One sought to be
Heard,
Seen,
Felt,
Breathed,
And
Divined
By my
Once
Somnolent spirit
Been
Roused
By the incendiary thew of
His ardor.
My revenant soul
Hath emerged from
The Chrysalis of Time as
The Apotheosis of Astral Flame
(A Reverberation of the Cosmo-Plexus of Love)
That since
The Days of Time Immemorial
Guided by the
Whisper of the stars,
I now cleave
To that celestial susurrus:
To the solace buried beneath
The Soil of Afflicition
(For anguish was all I knew)
In repose
Yet yearning to be
Resurrected
In The Dream of Acquisition,
To for eternity behold
The timeless fervor
That doth layeth
In His heart*
Aug 14, 2016
Aug 14, 2016 at 11:52 AM UTC
The Convent at Le Cap Fureur
Lies empty, by the sea,
Its ancient walls a grim despair
Of anonymity,
No more the chants of singing Nuns
To vespers, weave their way,
A thousand years of heartfelt prayers
In silence, drift away.
The Sisterhood of Sainte Bernice
Is cloistered there no more,
The end came in a fury from
The world outside, at war,
The Nuns were fasting, deep in Lent,
When soldiers came across
To find each sister worshipping
The Stations of the Cross.
No godly men were in their ranks
No thoughts of sin or Christ,
The Nuns were ***** and beaten in
Some pagan sacrifice,
The Abbess stood with arms outstretched
And prayed, ‘Forgive them not!’
Was taken to the courtyard where
The sergeant had her shot.
There’s blood still on those convent walls
It leaches out at Lent,
Runs down the walls of dim-lit halls
And stains the grey cement,
We lodged there late one April night
Myself, Joylene and Drew,
Lay staring at the stars above
As round us, silence grew.
We slept within those hallowed walls
Until I woke in fright,
And roused the others, ‘Come and see
This strange and fearful sight!’
For out there in the entrance hall
We heard a weird chant,
And two long lines of Nuns approached
To keep their covenant.
Two lines of candles in the dark,
The Nuns wore hoods and cowls,
And as each candle flickered out
Their chant gave way to howls.
Screams and pleas then filled the air,
The sound of steel-capped boots,
A pagan army from the east
Of rough and raw recruits.
Joylene was in hysterics by
The time this vision went,
And Drew was praying loudly on
That final day of Lent,
We grabbed our things, rushed out and then
We heard a single shot,
The blood-stained Abbess blocked our way
And cried: ‘Forgive them not!’
David Lewis Paget
Sep 27, 2013
Sep 27, 2013 at 10:27 AM UTC
It is not to be thought of that the flood
Of British freedom, which, to the open sea
Of the world’s praise, from dark antiquity
Hath flow’d, ‘with pomp of waters, unwithstood,’
Roused though it be full often to a mood
Which spurns the check of salutary bands,—
That this most famous stream in bogs and sands
Should perish; and to evil and to good
Be lost for ever. In our halls is hung
Armoury of the invincible Knights of old:
We must be free or die, who speak the tongue
That Shakespeare spake; the faith and morals hold
Which Milton held.—In everything we are sprung
Of Earth’s first blood, have titles manifold.
2.3k
A decade ago
A small child cried
With all his might he tried
But he still lost to Don Bosco
He came and conquered the arena
Along with hundreds of companions
But from his first day began the division
Lachit, Phukan, Bordoloi and Bezbaruah
The teachers dominated him
Homework increased his load
6 hours soon became a bore
The strict discipline frustrated him
He survived only for friendship
Together they defied the rules
To resist he rarely brought his books
With the teachers he created a bitter relationship
The school responded quite effectively
Punishments soon became frequent
Parents were called often
Indiscipline was not tolerated so easily
When he roused to secondary
He realized it wasn't like he had though before
His hatred was no more
He now began to see everything differently
He saw the teacher's love and care
All the hardships they had suffered
He repented those he cursed
So much hardships they had to bare
He changed his attitude
He paid attention in class
He began to get positive remarks
The teachers loved his new look
Not a single favor he denied
Without questions he obeyed every order
To win their love he kept on going farther
For their trust he strived
Finally he got what he wanted
His fame spread among them
Every teacher began to know his name
The boy on whom they could depend
Today he is about to leave Don Bosco
All those memories will just remain as a phase
Never to forget till his last days
Those years seems just like a minute ago
The boy is now a man
He laughs when he remembers those memories
The fun they had will never cease
He knows most won't understand
"No matter how hard you try to learn,
You'll never know the perks of being a Bosconian"
- Swarnabh
6:22 pm, 12/10/13
Feb 27, 2014
Feb 27, 2014 at 6:48 AM UTC
The Warden roused them early
on this, their final day.
He marched them out on hobbled feet-
Grey trucks took them away.
Doctors, lawyers, engineers,
All captured in a raid.
German Soldiers had been killed
Reprisals must be made..
Fathers, Husbands, sons all caught
within the **** snare.
Among them was a carpenter
Who bowed his head in prayer.
He’d walk the hills of Rome no more
Nor touch a lover’s cheek.
Here, near the Via Appia
He’d find eternal sleep.
Five by five they entered in
to the foreboding cave.
There they knelt for benediction,
the kind that pistols gave.
The cave became a charnel house
Each man shot in the head.
It reeked of blood and excrement
Flies feasted on the dead.
The carpenter fell once or twice.
Can blood for blood atone? .
His killers coveted his coat
and forced him to disrobe.
By now they had grown sloppy
with drink and hate and fear.
The first shot missed completely
The second grazed his ear.
In seconds live eternities
He said his final prayer:
“Forgive them, Father, even this
done out of hate and fear
several shots rang out just then
each found his noble head
they shot him once more, in his side
to make sure he was dead.
Explosions rocked and sealed the cave
With tons of rock and stone
They didn’t think to post a guard
The grey trucks drove back home.
Jun 11, 2012
Jun 11, 2012 at 7:20 AM UTC
Through the looking glass I peered, hoping,
Hoping to see another world.
Alice, oh Alice, how envy I you,
Dreaming, still dreaming,
But your dreams come true.
No one moved, not a single spoke, silence,
All around the world grew, or shrink it did.
It was you, Alice, you,
You were the one who grew.
Eat of that mushroom you did.
The caterpillar, smoking its pipe, wheezes,
In the garden, the flowers did sing.
You fell down the rabbit’s hole,
Not too long ago,
A new world you discovered.
The Cat, what was it called? Cheshire.
It’s wide grin, plump body.
Here, there, nowhere, it vanishes and reappears,
A cat without a grin, you’ve seen,
Not a grin, without the cat.
The Mad Hatter, the March Hare, seated,
Dormouse still sleeping.
Table long, tea cups and pots,
All set and ready,
Truly a Mad Tea-Party.
The Queen, oh, Her Majesty, Red hearts,
Loyal subjects pay their respects.
Golf, was it? No – croquet, you played.
Flamingos and hedgehogs,
Certainly a difficult game.
Painting the roses red, they were,
Red, red roses. The gardener,
He grew them all wrong: White roses from the trees,
Card soldiers, hard work.
Roused, awakened, your sister came, running,
A dream you thought.
It must have been, maybe,
The mushroom in your pocket, the white rabbit’s glove,
You know where you’ve been.
Jun 18, 2012
Jun 18, 2012 at 10:39 AM UTC
It started out as a flame
Flickering
Dancing off a matchstick that was an idea.
It kindled an idea to help renew,
To regenerate what was once lost.
The fire grew
And with it
A passion that could not be extinguished.
The warmth was welcomed by her body
A body so cold
So helpless against the dangers of the world
And herself.
The fire gave power
And with the power there grew an inferno
Once ignited, could not be smothered.
The fire whispered
Through smoke and cinders;
It whispered
To encourage the distressing ideas that flowed through her.
She was frozen
Frostbitten to the bone without the fire
And so
To stay alive
She stayed close by the hearth.
When friends became concerned
They tried to call her back
But she was too attached to the blaze.
While the smoke tangled in her hair
And coursed through her veins
She drew in ever closer.
She huddled towards the light
That was leading her to her dangerous desires,
Cutting everything off
Except for the sea of flames.
She clung to her damaged thoughts
And kept the fire steady.
Going almost unnoticed
Her skin turned red and warm;
She was too happy to embrace the heat.
She understood she was too close,
Yet she rose from her perch
Roused by the incandescence
The feverish luminosity.
She
A mere mortal
Drew within reach of the alluring fire.
The flames licked her face
Her hands
Her hopelessly lost mind
As she dove in
Headfirst.
Everyone she had turned away watched
Unable to help.
She registered one single thought:
It's too hot.
But
It was too late.
She couldn't step away from the furnace;
For suddenly she was bound by ropes of her own doing
A funeral pyre just for her.
She was stuck within the depths
Of the scorching fire she had so arduously cared for.
She tried to call out
To those just outside the fireplace
Watching
Witnessing
But the fumes enveloped her
Stifling her pleas,
Her cries for help.
She couldn’t breathe
The embers burning her lungs as she inhaled,
Silencing her voice as she exhaled.
She flickered for a second more;
The life left her eyes.
She collapsed
Leaving ash and bone to intermingle into nothing.
What she had once mistakenly perceived
As an idea,
No larger than a matchstick,
Was something she could not control.
But no one could control a fire that destructive
Or
Deadly.
May 7, 2013
May 7, 2013 at 9:53 PM UTC