I’m pretending to give,
Pretending to love,
In a dark sky that’s weeping,
For the souls of the sweeping,
The dirt and decay,
Under the rug,
So no one will stay,
And drink from the mug,
Of empty memories,
And untold stories,
Of magic remedies,
Ànd fantastic glories,
That fall from the sky,
And wash our bodies,
And rest our souls,
From the drop of blood,
We give till we're old.
Until the tap is clogged,
And death will cough,
As we quietly jog,
And run for silence.
Rough as it is violent,
Until peace finally sits,
At the same table,
And eats up the same fable,
Of lost love, and being able.
-
Author:
RSM (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 31st, 2025 02:34
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 18
- Users favorite of this poem: Cheeky Missy
Offline)
Comments2
This seems a cynical view on love and life seen as an empty mug. I too feel this mood from time to time. Well written
Im starting to flatline on my poetry i think. I feel i could write much better. Your still my favorite on this site. Your gracious comments and interpretations make my day. Thanks for reading Sorrenbarrett.
You are most welcome. A suggestion is we all flatline when this is the case poetry is about feeling and so write about the emotion involved in the flatline.it is there in the present and has thoughts and emotions that go with it. If done poetically in metaphor and good images it will be powerful
The opposites of life coexist; my cup runeth over or the well is dry. When peace finally finds its seat at the table, then perhaps balance is at hand. This is what I feel here when reading your poem. A very thoughtful piece.
Thank you for your interpretation.
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