I was born to a tumultuous sky,
under the gaze of the watchful stars
and the beckoning of a storm struck sea
the cold winds, my armor, vigilantly blanketing me
snuffing the cries of a helpless new born
unknown to all, but these forces of creation
in this hopeless, yet inutile world.
I was risen by those rendered to similar fates,
those left to wander the unmapped niches
of this limitless miracle we call the cosmos.
those, unbounded by rules and precepts,
those whom you malevolently shun,
those whose paths you fervently hope not to cross,
those whom you deem filthy and fraudulent,
those whom you know not, to be
the saviours of my fated life.
And with these hallowed companions
I meander, for I am, but a rootless orphan.
I travel, not to tour like the opulent,
but to be one with the colossal universe.
I eat, not to indulge and pamper my tongue,
but to fuel this feeble and mortal cage
of tangible flesh that homes my life.
I love, not for flagrancy and somatic wants
but for the high of being endeared and required
for in our world of not being heeded
a trace of love is a miracle welcome, but unasked for.
I live, not for spectacles and leisure
but to comprehend the most of this gift,
the gift of being that I am the fortunate recipient of.
I spurn the pity and frugal help you offer me,
for you think I am doomed, poor and parent less.
You, my far observer couldn't be more erroneous
for in my rusted bowl and rags, there is abundant richness
for in my soot filled face, there is boundless radiance
for in my stunted back and sorrowful stoop,
there is endless and soulful pride,
and in my weakness and starvation there is draconian strength.
For I believe I was not risen of earthly mortals,
I was fathered by the sea, the stars and the sky,
I was mothered by the mystical forces of spirituous time,
I am a mere orphan, albeit the cursedly blessed child of the very universe.
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I tried my hand at free verse.
Please do vote and comment.
Criticism is most welcome.
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Poesía#14 on 8 March 2017 Poetry, Prose. Words bled from the very soul. Musings of an occasional poetess. 'Poetry is the rhythmical creation of beauty in words. It is an abstract art, and I am, but a mere artist ' - Edgar Allan Poe ©wordalmaniac 2016