Monday, December 10, 2007

New Poem: This World

This World

Hardly begun in this world, already
I was granite, pure, naive, solid
and heavy, shedding elderly tears

for what was lost in becoming flesh,
knowing without reason I was misplaced,
longing for silky black wings.

Hardly begun, this world was rooted
in my bones, tendrils of ivy
growing from my pores, keeping me

grounded, isolated, a dark closet
of musty clothes, moth balls,
nothing resembling a place called home.

Hardly of this world, and lost
in thick forests of doubt,
dropping shiny marbles as I walk

deeper into the unknown, searching
for the hidden spring that might
clear the illusion from my eyes.

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