The Boy in the Corner
⊆ 6:56 PM by Pete | Poems . | ˜ 1 comments »
Sits a boy in a corner,
And where these walls and corners meet,
His mind wonders to a time
Without mists,
A time of radiant illusions and dreams.
And through a window he could see
Birds flying in twos..
Each for another, none for their own,
He wonders at butterflies fluttering in the wind,
Streaming happily towards flowery wells.
But the age of innocence have long gone..
For now through the window all he could see
Are thick chimneystacks of vaporous clouds
Streaming and snaking into the air...
Corrupting his world with smoke impure,
Darkening it with clouds of worms and maggots.
And now these worms of rejection and sorrow,
They squirm deeper and deeper,
Spawning trees of anger and despair.
And from these trees they turned him a puppet,
A Pinocchio in eternal misery,
Unwanted and discarded...
Destined for the flames of unending solitude.
How he wanted to hear the birds sing!
And how he used to sing with them.
But now they are naught but pestilence in his eyes..
He had reached for the window...
And closed it shut...
And turned his back on life.
And in the shadows where he resides,
Ranks of faceless figures his company,
One by one they file past..
An unending throng of monotony
Trickling through the valleys of time.
Until one day he sees..
Eyeless birds gliding above,
Unholy scavengers for a sacred meal.
And he stares in wonder and trepidation,
As they swoop onto his vestige of Joy...
Cawing and jostling, they pick it clean
So that no whites of bones could be seen.
Turning away from the eyeless birds
He glances now a glorious sight,
A sight of marbled walls,
And floors of precious stones.
And behold, for there he sees,
An image of him near a fire,
With his books and pipe
And plenty of wine.
But the boy feels naught but sorrow at the sight,
For the books are unread..
And their pages unturned..
And the wineglass unfilled..
For now joy is stripped boneless.
Shackled forever... a stringless puppet,
He now he spots a window long forgotten..
Alight with gold slivers through her glass veil.
Pushing back the worms,
He reaches out and tugs it open
And with every inch of his being,
The window bares itself,
The effort of a bloodied hand.
And a mighty windgust rushes forth..
To a miasma of birds in twos..
And radiant dreams.
And butterflies flutter away to flowery wells,
In streams of color and glorious beauty.
And with that the pages are turned,
And the wineglass filled to the brim..
And with the birds he sings once more
His companions of song and gales of joy.
Thursday, August 10, 2006 at 7:03:00 PM PDT Yeah, I know it's long but try reading Homer's works. THEN you'll know what it means to read long poetry.
*cough*
So this poem tells the story of a boy with a choice. Embrace life or retreat into himself (the boy has issues).Looking at the scribbles for this poem, it coulda been much, much longer. Think I'll post that and let you see.