I won't let go.
He's going to have to use that spear.
Lord!
I believed,
I sang,
I flew,
I resisted.
I drew in the water
waning to melt,
like the torrent
flowing—it forks
and decides—.
I let myself be seen:
the ephemerality of being,
the real delirium.
My name doesn't matter,
yes, my purpose!
They weigh on the golden scales
my heart,
the twelve,
under my arm, the book.
They will say.
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Author:
Damaso (
Online) - Published: June 17th, 2025 08:23
- Comment from author about the poem: Turning a blind eye, I recount the Pole's travels.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 3
Online)
Comments1
This poem reaches deep and in it I see standing for what one is may result in being trodden under foot of (progress?) A thought provoking piece
In context, I must have spent three hours alone with thoughts of self-harm. I can't tell you much about its significance. Thank you for reading and sharing your kind words; they are very comforting. Best regards.
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