A fragile neck ready to snap,
In constant threat of Boreas.
Atop a green wave,
This lighthouse beacon bears its temporary beauty,
Set alone in this world to never be seen by a stranger's eyes.
Yet ironically,
Stumbled upon through malignant devices.
A wandering fool ready to escape,
Fully prepared to leave with no earthly possessions.
Just courage wrought from fear,
Exhumed from the watery grave from whence it was buried,
Do to the Fates zealous mockery.
A wondering acquaintance whom I have never forgiven for their notions,
Yet I am learning to love them, still.
Ready to let the bow break,
Let it come down,
Crash.
The fool came.
Dripping from his lips,
Heart like a kick-drum.
And at silence from being ostracized from even misfits,
The stranger turned to the beauty hidden in this world,
Prepared to embrace oblivion.
It was by chance that the wanderer found the beacon,
And they selfishly took it,
So ready to have light in their life.
Soon however,
Even light withered and left,
Leaving the wanderer with no more beauty in their world.
Alone,
Again.
And so it came for the hundredth time,
That the wanderer would die,
Waiting to find light in their next life.
YOU ARE READING
Pedals of Snow
PoetryA short poem I wrote one night. I want to leave it up to the reader to find his or her own meaning. Of course, I know what it talks about. But when friends have read it, they all interpret it differently.
