Fallen Petals

I suppose
A rose
Is naught
But fraught,
Not
With love,
For such a dove
Is of
Optimism,
Slaughtered
By its very thorns,
Caught
Red on red
On the bull's horns,
Sought,
Hard-fought,
And yet left to rot,
Distraught,
Taut
Between worlds of fakes,
An onslaught
Of uncaught
Mistakes,
And one is all it takes,

Indeed a rose
Is wrought
From the darkest thoughts,
Deepest betrayals,
Sharpest hatred,
Heaviest burdens,
For fate
Is not
So kind
As to bind
Without breaking
Find
Without forsaking,
So too is the barbed arrow
Thus shot.





I suppose, additionally, that this poem has a hint of rap to it; that's not exactly intentional, but I guess that's what rap is at its finest and deepest. Might it be Pleonasm in Rap? Well, that defeats the purpose of the genre, but imagine in another world, where such works are treated differently, almost as hybrids of rhyme and free verse. In a world where these works are embellished with the nuances of poetry, just as they are tarnished by the shadows of themes inseparable from their more elegant counterparts. Might I call rap...light? Not that I have the knowledge nor the expertise to make such bold statements. Nevertheless, onward we proceed.

Also may I point out that the long-sought "double-edged arrow" metaphor...is impractical. Thus we rely on the fallen petals at hand, for as much as we might try to deny it, they're everywhere.

Wings

Humans, wingless as they are,
Will scour the world around,
No stone unturned, near or far,
But quarry yet unfound.

And failing to even replicate
This dreamlike world above,
They simply learn to accept their fate
And so the ground they love.

Despite themselves, a greed remains,
Tearing at their core,
For futile are their avian feigns,
So much they yearn to soar.

A landbound man is twisted by
His own unsightly lack,
For even the smallest fly
Has found his craven track.

And so proceeds year after year,
A rolling stone so cast,
The truth growing ever clear,
That dream wings cannot last.

Perhaps dreams are just dreams,
From every heart the legend sings,
The day of flight will wait, it seems,
For the one who finds his wings.





Who shall it be? Perhaps we see their feathers, glimpses of possibility amidst the mundane. It seems they hide in plain sight. Perhaps above us they soar. Watch for the wings...for they may even be yours.

Note: this is kind of a quick poem, written on a phone in a bus on a road in summer in...

Melting

Guess the context. Reach for the tale. (originally begun 12/21/16)

The gift I could not give,
The life I could not live;
For fairest upon fairest day,
A silent gift wandering astray,
The words I could not say...

Brightest moonlit ray,
Unreaching inner fray,
Hopes and dreams slip away;
For a future of unmolded clay...
Cannot stay.

And neither could I.