This is a survival poem
that clawed its way up
the ziggurat of buried
ideas and reached
the temple top to pray
for an escape.
Fresh ink drips off
the edges of the walls
like guilt on a
retrospective day.
It camouflages into
sunshine smiles and
wallflower wisdom,
praying that new beginnings
are not like hidden rot
in bamboo poles,
hidden until it’s too late.
that clawed its way up
the ziggurat of buried
ideas and reached
the temple top to pray
for an escape.
Fresh ink drips off
the edges of the walls
like guilt on a
retrospective day.
It camouflages into
sunshine smiles and
wallflower wisdom,
praying that new beginnings
are not like hidden rot
in bamboo poles,
hidden until it’s too late.
Tell me, when do you talk
about the weight of your bones,
the rust in your veins?
Watch the world wait
until it’s too late.
One response to “the irony is hope grows rusty”
Powerful writing. You have a most extraordinary way with using words…very entrancing.
‘Fresh ink drips off the edges of walls like guilt on a retrospective day.’
Always, I am tempted to read/and, re-read…; I also wonder how you managed to write it. Like did it all come spontaneously…; or, did you have to write/and, then, re-write. Did you used any special technique to begin with…; such as, you have a general idea; and, then, choose some words…; then, expand on those words, later on.
I suppose, in reality, poetry isn’t something ‘fixed’; sometimes, it comes spontaneously/and, other times, it’s more pre-planned/and, a developing process; but, there’s certainly no ‘one’ way to do it…create.