There is blood and tears,
and ringing in the ears,
billboards collapsing
desperately clinging to the sky.
The weary traveler,
the sun dying of old age,
the rusted cage
The side of the road
where two crows fight over
the moonlight.
The flowers that are rain
The flowers that are light
The flowers that are moon
The bent spoon,
The spilled milk,
the broken grail,
The stained silk
The garden infested with slugs,
the drunken amethyst covered in mud.
In the midst of all this commotion
The little snail
remains in motion,
a little at a time.
His determination shines
in the galaxy if slime
he leaves behind.
Cry for help out of the darkness!
But the gods offer no light
only coal for you to start a fire.
The flame is in your heart.
Resilience!
Sweat out all the blue in your muscles, weary snail.
Your magic is slow
and persistent.
Your sorrow is miraculous and profound.
The bells ring in the fire of the bird’s song,
the dawn
is a painting
on heaven's door.
-
Author:
MA-Q (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: July 27th, 2024 19:11
- Comment from author about the poem: It's kind of like a surrealist poem that taps into the spirit of all things. In the midst of chaos we can all shine. Some of the greatest things are accomplished a little at a time. Small things create big things. We don't have to be trapped by our limitations. Everything has grace.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 9
Offline)
Comments1
Wonderful imagery in this piece with some metaphor as well. Nicely done.
I appreciate it. Thank you!
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