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DAY'S END--LAST UPDATE Nov. 23
DAY’S END
The minutes are heavy and long
and I begin to fall into those dark places
where there is no dreaming.
the wars go on.
and am losing to inevitability.
my spirit is beginning to break .
my walls are crashing down.
my soul if that is what I feel
kneels to disbelief.
my reason seeks the bliss of madness.
my heart clings to illusion
there is no peace.
I struggle to find a way
but the minutes are heavy and long
and nothing of me will be left
at the end of today
Editing stage:
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Comments
the_fool
Wed, 2011-11-16 00:59
bliss of madness? nice!
great read, but could possibly use a little polishing. some of the capitalization is inconsistent and the imagery is a bit light in the last S. the body has a great tempo and the intro spot on. good read here!
Geremia
Wed, 2011-11-16 04:24
Thanks. Am workng on your
Thanks. Am workng on your suggestions
Joe
author commentRoscoe Lane
Wed, 2011-11-16 01:04
Oh how,
Oh how wrong you are, for all of us there is our writing now. No one will be able to say we didn't do it. Nice poem Regards Roscoe....
Roscoe Llane,
Religion will rip your faith off, and return
for the mask of disbelief that's left.
Geremia
Wed, 2011-11-16 04:28
Yes...a bit like Sisyphus and
Yes...a bit like Sisyphus and the rock--we keep on.trying.
Thanks )
Joe
author commentGeezer
Mon, 2011-11-21 19:06
This one is...
very good, Joe. Maybe the last lines could be:
There will be no peace
I try to pass the time, but...
the minutes are heavy and long.
No shadow of me, will be left at nightfall.
Just a thought, ~ Gee
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Geremia
Mon, 2011-11-21 20:05
I like it. I will go back sd
I like it. I will go back sd take anothere look.
thanks. Joe
author commentwesley snow
Wed, 2011-11-23 21:27
Being free verse...
... I approach your poetry cautiously. However, most of what you write has such evocative language I find myself enjoying the poetry in spite of my usual sensibilities. This poem though gave me a problem your others have not. The reasons for the poet's distress is inferred, but so esoterically I feel left out. What troubles the narrator so that the end of the day is such catastrophe?
This is, of course, merely my perspective, but despite the language the poem gives too little. I cannot be with it, for I have no cause for the anguish. Am I missing something or is the obscurity the point?
wesley
W. H. Snow
A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds. Percy Bysshe Shelley
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Geremia
Thu, 2011-11-24 03:12
To tell the disease throws
To tell the disease throws the poem into prose and takes away the mystery. I have an adressive inherited form of Parkinsons. If u can read DREAM DANCE,the first poem I ever wrote.
thanks, W es
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