Zeniyama
10-26-2009, 09:00 PM
Against the yellow light
Of the sun
I held
The crystal vase
Full of water
With a single
Rose
A rose for my love
Wet with dew;
I picked it from the bush
Where she kissed me
And promised never to neglect me
And
She never did
Not once
In our entire lives
Did she ever think it necessary
To hurt with words
The soft little bit of flesh
They call a heart
And now
At her door
I wait to be let in;
Dressed in black
With a little red rose
For her
My love
In her coffin.
----
It should be obvious that I've been reading Joyce again, what with the Beckett poem in my signature and the lack of punctuation in my poem.
I'm sorry, I lied a bit when I said I'd write a more jolly poem this time. It's not that I'm necessarily unhappy; in fact, I'm quite a bit happier than I've been in a while. I don't know why all my poems are ending up unhappily, now.
Next time, I promise, I'll write something that's not sad.
Of the sun
I held
The crystal vase
Full of water
With a single
Rose
A rose for my love
Wet with dew;
I picked it from the bush
Where she kissed me
And promised never to neglect me
And
She never did
Not once
In our entire lives
Did she ever think it necessary
To hurt with words
The soft little bit of flesh
They call a heart
And now
At her door
I wait to be let in;
Dressed in black
With a little red rose
For her
My love
In her coffin.
----
It should be obvious that I've been reading Joyce again, what with the Beckett poem in my signature and the lack of punctuation in my poem.
I'm sorry, I lied a bit when I said I'd write a more jolly poem this time. It's not that I'm necessarily unhappy; in fact, I'm quite a bit happier than I've been in a while. I don't know why all my poems are ending up unhappily, now.
Next time, I promise, I'll write something that's not sad.