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as a child I did, I suppose
take a dip into a, then foreign, prose
and felt the sunlight burn a hole
through all my tidy chapel clothes
like dreadfully dancing in the rain
or traveling far and wide by train
an endless tugging pulled me close
though, only muck did I attain
when I was young, it wasn't the same
twas nothing- not a story, novel, or itch for fame
fun, I argued, was all it was
that dragged me to hell and cursed my name
as I grew, I learned the proper way
to articulate what I want to say
but now and then I return yet again
to the savagery once thrown away
if not for light, there'd be no breath
for the only dark I know is death
but if not for prose I cannot say
if there is a death, we have not met
and if there is a light, I have not seen
- ch
YOU ARE READING
carpe diem
Poetrybrought to you from the far corners, shallow pools, and desperate depths of my mind complete
