How can I create if my house is not in order,
If the inspiration I choose renders me numb,
Stops my lips from forming the words I need to speak,
So that I might reap the benefits of that love?
Why should I come back,
To paths well worn,
And scenes remembered with retinal insistence
Upon a canvas now made of gossamer,
Too thin to bear the weight of paint;
The weight of colour now full of pain?
It hurts, but you don’t know that it hurts,
How much my heart is pressed
Within walls too thick to allow
The ease of breath I need to bring me back to life.
Who am I to be strong for?
Not you. Never you. Only you.
This heart broken by absence,
And wayward interceptions,
Of dawning comprehension
Of wordless declensions,
That seek to render me dumb,
To cut my tongue from my idling throat,
And to bind my hands into knots of indifference.
What shall I create with such vehement desire,
That cannot heal the pain you now cause me,
That this feeble tenure of self now causes me?
My desire to stay away for good
Redirects my footing,
Though the way before me now lies in darkness,
In part because I have no desire,
To inhabit a world without you.
Though, should that be better than a world without me?

6 thoughts on “A Poem.

  1. Phew … had me worried there …

    I get an image of the Tarot’s Hermit.
    No, not the silly Waite variant (and all the copycat versions based on it) (yeuch) but one I saw a long time ago and have never come across again.

    Crossroads, Madame?

    Like

    1. I agree, Waite’s version is my least favourite. Oddly enough, I used to get the Hermit quite a lot when using my Arthurian Tarot deck. I didn’t mind that variant too much as it depicted him as being scholarly, and in the midst of writing, which, if you know me is very apropos. Used to bug the crap out of me, because I couldn’t for the life of me work out what it meant. I think I worked it out once, but have since forgotten. 🙂

      Crossroads? Always. There’s this shifty fellow that hangs about there though, trying to sell me llama skin rugs and promising me all sorts. Says for a handful of beans he’ll sell me a golden goose, or was it my soul…?I can’t remember…(mutter, mutter…)

      Like

    1. Ha! Thanks, John. The last month or so I’ve returned to writing freeform poetry, though this is the first I’ve posted here in a while. Like a Leonid Afremov painting? That’s a very nice compliment. I was wondering where I’d come across the name before, then realised, after a quick search that I’ve seen his work before – beautifully colourful, sort of poetry for the eyes!

      I shall endeavour to post more, then. 🙂

      Liked by 2 people

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