Thursday, November 15, 2018

This week, I caught myself remembering things I regret from when I was young. I couldn't stop thinking about it, and so I wrote another non-rhyming poem to blow off steam. Since I suppose poems should be named, I'll call this one, 'Slow to Speak'.

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A bat hangs sleepily below the frame of a window, decorated with etchings of false gods. Here, midway up the towering walls of a weathered castle, the bat is gently stirred by a cool wind, alleging a lack of security here.

This structure is haunted by the ghost of a nameless king, who impersonates a thief, taking things which are already his. And, though the walls are here and there preserved by invisible tapestries, depicting a tragic beauty, she is only ever an unseen image on the wall.

If words alone could build shape back into that cloth, then the sound of it might echo against those otherwise flat and colorless threads, but there are no meaningful sounds here; only wind. The bat learns nothing, sees nothing, fails to perceive the safety just beyond these easily surmountable barriers, and prepares to leave.

Black, featherless wings beat chaotically against a wind that ebbs and flows like an oncoming tide. Looking for shelter, it passes a bird, whose eyes search the ground. The bat passes a statue of a dog with a gift in its mouth. The oncoming horizon seems to grow taller, but the bat pushes forward, determined not to ask, "was that place better than this?". It has never wandered far from home, and it never will.

Humble raindrops transform the bat into a heavier creature, which falls slowly toward a small and well-hidden residence. The bat waits hungrily for quiet, its senses battered by loud calls from a great shepherd, driving dark grey sheep with quick strokes of his rod and staff.
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I might come back and edit this, because I don't feel 100% content with it.... but for now, I'm thinking I'll go ahead and post it here just to finalize the process of releasing these thoughts.


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