poem/sonnet, 'Barbs.'

 

Tarry not a moment more at this door where uncertainty lies behind its swing. Embrace the deafening silence, barbed love. Await the future that is scant to come, though thee waits with bated breath for its call. Feelings of warmth tend to fall short with her, dearest mocking bird knows naught of her words. Sit waiting for a letter unlikely to come, to hear from a friend thought gone. To mourn the time his voice is cut off. Tell me, doth the bird song make you cry, too? Pine for a time where thee can be thyself? Neigh? I must be mad once more, overshooting the mark once more, for i can't see the sun. Clouded clarity and feathers of lead, tell me, how is it thou would have plead then? Stricken by stars and the stains of what's bled? Thee would have cried like a mourning chicken, squabbling, wailing only to lose your head. Tell me, what doth thou imagine for death, Paradise, or punishment for loving? Bitterness, brutal birth before I breathed, cursed with something i can only accept. To be taunted with futures only dreamed. Cold fire burns mine heart, i am innocent from a crime naught spoken, but fiercely screamed. If i shall die for loving with mine heart, so shall thee with thy bitter, broke beater. Embrace the bed of thorns thine effort grows. See the agony that its twisted vines give. Now look within, and see what thee bestows, And ask thine self, is that a life you'd live? Waiting for love you can never accept, for thou art barred in a barbed cage of lies. Behind what life offers, thee must deny.

  • Published March 20, 2020, 19:37
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  • in Poetrie
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