A World Not Yours
The sun is high. Shallow shadows fall
beneath the sacred grove.
Trees stand like soldiers or druids,
sentinels, protectors against the world that fills you,
a world that is not yours,
merely a place you must live.
And live you have.
A cross between soap opera and sacramental song,
full of darkness. Gothic and slapstick.
At times, you think, you should make a movie.
At times, you think, you should pack it all in the attic
in solid old trunks with brass locks.
Instead, it leaks out, an old wound,
mostly healed, but never quite.
About this poem.
I am beginning to wonder if I am ever going to write the poem I intend to write again. I am not sure if I like this one or not. I’ll leave it to you.