An unusual deluge it was,
when a sapling was borne
not with green tendrils
but roots of red.
It occupied the garden,
A ghastly,doomed presence
Half bent from struggling
hands and coloured with the
red of demented growth,
Soiled by a dozen bullets
around, encased in Sunday's
bloodied nursery.
It had no two eyes to witness
its plunder
No visage to be etched upon
Or even the delicacy of
active movement
Mute target of terrors and
horror it was,
its branches slivered a day
before fruition
Its birth metaphor
impaired.
All that remained was a
crippled conscience.
A sentience of a sapling in
red
Its umbilical cord
separated,
Even before it could be
embraced by this
orphanage, all leafless yet
What a carnage ensued in
this garden, and what
doom could be foreseen by
the gardener?
His beloved sapling now
nothing more,
A spitting image of those
human trembles and sighs
Struggling hands and
sewered souls all touched
those tendrils so benign.
What fate had his sapling
borne?
Stroked by its ultimate
punisher,
A shadowless miscreant
As he uprooted its fine cord
Now a stillborn symbol,
The Sapling, renouncing its
incarnation, is buried in
its muddy womb,
mourned by the gardener.
Embodied by Sunday's
bloodied nursery,
Now dry and defunct.
......................................................
The Orlando shooting left me( and us) benumbed . This is the poem that acts as a metaphor and symbol of the senseless cycle of violence that surrounds us.
.....................................................
YOU ARE READING
WHISTLING CHIMES
PoetryTHIS IS AN ASSORTMENT OF POEMS THAT VARY IN MOOD, THEME AND VISION. VERSATILITY IS MY COMMON AIM AND I HAVE POURED OUT MY HEART AND SOUL INTO EACH OF THESE WORKS. I HOPE MY VISION FINDS A MIRROR IN YOUR HEARTFELT RESPONSES. LET THIS POETIC JOURNEY...
