Endless rows in speculation
Of an observance premature.
Among the eyes aglow with stupor,
My own, glistened in apprehension.
"It is too soon!" I cry to no one.
"Too soon for a lad inured."
Yet, hands continue in their lauding,
Heralding the brewing detachment.
Despite my passive protests,
The proceeding is fructified.
Alas, I cannot reverse nor deter
A motion as ancient, as primal as this.
And so He moves,
Beyond my grasp and sight
Moving far too quickly for I
And my weightless words.
Released to wander,
A stroll he feigns to grasp.
Graduated to a dire traipse
A trail unto a crooked end.
I like your poems a lot, but I think yours have a lot of depth that people don't understand unless you give some sort of explanation, or a bit of background info. I'd enjoy them better if I had even a small idea of what they actually are about.
ReplyDeletei'd probably agree. i do like hearing people's interpretations of what is going on though. everyone's interpretation is unique and i like hearing those before i divulge where it came from. would you care to share what you thought?
ReplyDeleteor rather, what images or pictures come to mind for you? that's what i like to get out of these sort of abstract ones.
ReplyDelete