My land, my pain and me

[litman]

My land, my pain and me

Hiding behind the theory of mirth is my pain,
Lying prostrate before death’s agonizing smile;
The smile, my eyes often fail to see;
And I keep hovering over versions of me

Me is a cold, old metaphor of rain,
A dead alley for the harking pebble,
A smoking fog off the King’s bloody hand
Around the dainty neck of my homeland

As I look at her beauteous gritty nose,
The walking smile wades through to her eyes;
She fixes me, unseeing: looking yonder through me;
Her arcane pain serenely solidifies into tears

As you jovially pass away through me,
I wonder who your tears shall atone,
Who shall sniff the miasma of your metaphors,
Inter your dead letters, your speaking eyes?

The King’s specious power is thee worked;
The writer’s impetus is thee caught;
The child’s life is on thee dependent;
…

The tremors of the dying body
Wriggle free out of my soul
Every instant sloughs off into spleen;
And I becomes wife, mother, king and queen

[PrinceMyshkin]

Your use of sometimes archaic language is beautifully melded into these strong lines, the lofty feel of the whole of this.

[litman]

Many thanks for having taken the trouble to read these lines; your comments are welcome.

[Delta40]

what a wonderful gift to write in a style which takes me to far off places

[litman]

Reading is pleasure (Barthes); being read is ecstasy; many thanks, delta and prince

[Maryd.]

H litman... Well done with this one... I, like Delta, disappeared into a land far away, with this one... Thanks for sharing this with us. (and welcome, by the way)
regards
Mary

[litman]

Hi Maryd,
thanks for reading and everything. I'd like to know why reading these lines makes both of you and Delta think of far-off places, is it because of the style, the tone, the language or something else?
Thanks