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The fool with his sad, sweet smile
‘O sad, sunken man
Why do you sit upon a bed of stone?
With droplet tears sprinkled iridescent
Upon your sun kissed cheeks?’
His sorrow-dipped eyes climb an unstable ladder
From a spot in the distance
(And a window to infinity)
To meet mine own
‘Witness of my distress!’ he cries with
A tin voice that chimes a bell
‘Hear the story that I have been wound
I pray you bear my heart’s desperate sobs’
Tell me, he did, lenses glazed with nostalgia
Straw colored hair in a lovely mess
Hands’ fingers feeling the invisible being
Of his vanished history…
He told me then of his spirit
Which was gold and true and kind
Woven by the cherubs
When their countenance was aligned
But he was born with a broken tongue
And his soul never took to sail
On the charming waters of other souls
For humanity and its gale
He held his dreams of being loved
For he was a rather precious thing
But the one left behind as the songbirds took flight
He was the bird with a single wing
And so it was, the dew soaked truth
His heart was vacant, for want of a friend
Stumbling through life with three left feet
The story’s anticlimactic end
The fool looked at me with a sad, sweet smile
His stained glass face painted with prayer
I gave him back his steady gaze
Through a complex exchange of hands
He looked hopeful, for a savored moment
As if I would mercifully heal his pain
He extended his palm to me, his hope
With a thoroughly desperate mien
I?
I stalked away from the sorry soul
Leaving the fool on his bed of stone
To whimper alone in the darkness
And shiver and groan
And weep
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This article has 32 comments.
At first, I thought that writing this poem was a mistake; it's not very clever, not very pretty.
But it's pure and honest, so I wouldn't take it back.
And the lemon-drops are just like raindrops as they fall from above and splash against the soft skin of the mind. And the raindrops are quiet, but that's why they have so much to say to the few who listen to them. It sounds like you are engulfed in a beautiful moment.
I am listening to the Ballad of the Absent Mare; hearing the gentle notes of the guitar as well as the woeful tone of the poet's voice is like embracing a wild bird, feeling the softness of the feathers and the wings but at the same time being pierced by the talons. Rather like falling in love, I suppose.
So here I am listening to lemon-drop music, and reading silent rain. I can hear two things, the sniffle of a sad, sweet smile, and a Lighthouse song (Not that the song means much in particular to me, except smoke and silently twanging guitar picked by imagined, gnarled fingers, a voice rising over it, smoky and clear.)
He is my puppeteer.
Sounds charming; however, I don't rumble, I fly. Or sometimes I strut. Or sometimes I soumersalt. Or sometimes I glide. Or sometimes I...etc.
What a beautifully pessimistic thing to say! I believe I will incorporate that into a poem.
I better tell Emilio that he is a mere sad and empty instinct.
I understand...
Although I did enjoy being a puppet for a while. I believe we are all puppets, but who's pulling those lovely strings? Except for Emilio, of course.
