by Tyler Joseph Wiseman
Tuesday, May 10, 2005
Rated "G" by the Author.
Print Save Become a Fan
Ire starts up,
deep in the evening
for, though my domicile
is the picture of tranquility
I am living with a troll
who feasts on the certainty
It is, at times, all I can do
in restraing myself to
not drink, being irrefutably driven
by the snow of his sobriety
White static, sprinkles of a mesh
cascade with the many little nothings
which would seem apparent
to anyone excepting immigrants
or socially retarded refugees
and the greatest bother yet
is that I allow any of this to lend influence
Yet, I'm fighting to be the best again,
and somehow, inevetably upon my moments
of crucial meditation, he utters the irrelevant
little minutae which sends me
spiraling to the ground, an angel,
tethered to his ideosyncratic occupations
I can forgive him, nonetheless,
shall someday soon lift free from my
self imposed imprisoments, to stretch
a kingly grace across these beloved lands
For now, I am a pauper of the spirit,
learning the richness in an understanding
of what ends are gained from nine tails
to five lashes and a dime
Want to review or comment on this
Click here to login!
Need a FREE Reader Membership?
Click here for your Membership!
|Reviewed by Mary Quire
|This is a beautiful poem, filled with the true nature of repentance. I see the troll as all of those who believe your stumbling block to be the scarlet letter you wear. No matter what they do, trudge on as if you never heard them.
|Reviewed by E T Waldron
|Sounds very altruistic! A noble poem, albeit one of frustration for the character;-) Beautifully written!