Escapism -- at one with nature
THIS WAY OUT
A maze of mirrors
leading nowhere.
I had found another world.
Tempting expanse of quicksilvered
cubicles
offered another diversion.
Flown through the sky.
Fallen on a dead star.
Everything is cold and gray.
There is no air.
The wind does not blow.
I sat on a stone and looked
all around,down
and round about me
confindent that I would find
my way out.
Little sparks of blue light
springing and dancing
twisting round and round
and round.
Sharp knives and jagged blades
peculiar appetite for mute horror.
Confusion compounded
by many false exits.
Small circles inside big ones.
Pyramids, domes and spires
danced and danced
singing extraordinary songs
on the edge of a great flat hill
through a dark thicket in a hollow.
Dark passage
narrow and deep.
Waterworks left to ponder
the sounds of the orchestra.
A little stream of water
runs down the valley.
Bright yellow wine
sparking, bubbling
running down over red, yellow
green stones.
Soft shoe
pontifical gestures
toss a cornucopia of sand
before footlights.
The orchestra warming up
was a sign
the show was about to start.
Poetry by TheresaCecilia
Read 630 times
Written on 2006-04-09 at 23:29
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THIS WAY OUT
Escapism -- at one with natureTHIS WAY OUT
A maze of mirrors
leading nowhere.
I had found another world.
Tempting expanse of quicksilvered
cubicles
offered another diversion.
Flown through the sky.
Fallen on a dead star.
Everything is cold and gray.
There is no air.
The wind does not blow.
I sat on a stone and looked
all around,down
and round about me
confindent that I would find
my way out.
Little sparks of blue light
springing and dancing
twisting round and round
and round.
Sharp knives and jagged blades
peculiar appetite for mute horror.
Confusion compounded
by many false exits.
Small circles inside big ones.
Pyramids, domes and spires
danced and danced
singing extraordinary songs
on the edge of a great flat hill
through a dark thicket in a hollow.
Dark passage
narrow and deep.
Waterworks left to ponder
the sounds of the orchestra.
A little stream of water
runs down the valley.
Bright yellow wine
sparking, bubbling
running down over red, yellow
green stones.
Soft shoe
pontifical gestures
toss a cornucopia of sand
before footlights.
The orchestra warming up
was a sign
the show was about to start.
Poetry by TheresaCecilia
Read 630 times
Written on 2006-04-09 at 23:29
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
