An experiment with iambic pentameter in blank verse. Failed, but liked the result.

The Phoenix

Oppressed by the heavy hands on my chest,
all remaining hope sinks like a sad stone.
My lungs fill with a rage so hot it burns,
every layer 'til it reaches my core.
Disgust coats my skin thick and warm, so thick,
I fear I will never be rid of it.
Anguish, sorrow, despair, and misery,
weigh me down like bricks I (think) cannot break.
Yet that rage: smoldering flame of my pain,
ignites my soul; an internal beacon.
And I rise; I rise so tall from the ash,
a magnificent metamorphosis.

Poetry by Marie-Elisabeth Rose
Read 428 times
Written on 2010-09-15 at 04:30

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