If ever there were a somber song
To play in a drunken ear,
That many may strive to resist
On an eve of day led long,
Aloof with mockery and fallen tears
This tune would yet persist.
Carried out like ink on parchment
Swayed along by its stroking brush,
People would soak their hallowed doubts
Once more in its quivering confidence,
Discarding anew their greed and lust
In the chill of a November roundabout.
Accepting its flawed keys of note
Bathing in the base of drums,
Would it not inspire relief
Among the hopeless, and revoked;
Could its seduction not tempt one's thumbs
To pluck, as if chords could be seen?
Through hilarity and humility
It wavers in its course,
As laughter obscures intention
Sadness reveals direction,
And within that tone something grew;
Perhaps the red was woven blue.
-
Author:
Nicholas Browning (
Offline) - Published: October 17th, 2021 15:04
- Comment from author about the poem: This poem is a metaphor likening fate to the way a river runs and it describes how people show its effects and compromise with their circumstances. It also references the "Red thread of fate" philosophy. This work is dedicated to my good friend, Hunter.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 26
- Users favorite of this poem: aDarkerMind, L. B. Mek.
Offline)
Comments3
worthy of much applause Nicholas;
Thank you very much! I'm pleased that you enjoyed it.
Good write N.
What you doing going round roundabouts in November? Why not in October? Heehee (Do shut up Orchi. lol).
October isn't chilly enough lol
Thanks for stopping by my friend.
Brilliance, like this poem
needs no explanation,
it can only detract from its natural impact,
let people read and interpret it in their own way,
Trust, in your capacity to convey your meaning
in short: Trust your poetic talent!
thankyou for choosing to share your wonderful gift,
it was a privilege to read your work, sincerely
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.