like swollen pores
old love clogs over itself with rancid regrets
pollut'd by hurt and anger
and like parasitic spores
new love is sift'd by the wind,
takes it root in the strangest of fields
still, like opening medieval oaken doors
there are keys of life that refuse to fit
so our lock'd up intent keeps rusting shut
from lack of needing what we believe
lies in a shrink-wrapp'd state on the opposite side
where the artificial facts of life are cak'd
with dust-ridden cobweb'd smear'd illusions,
in zones where fairy dust itself has expiration dates. . .
© 2006 cynth’ya lewis reed
all rights reserv’d
The other side of Cynth'ya
Share
Print
Save
your poetic skills shine this poem ...
Love, or its such, hurts, madly, crazily, unwantonly, ubiquitiously.
Particulary poignant:
"in zones where fairy dust itself has expiration dates. . ."
Fairy dust does 'expire', doesn't it? But, not swollen pores, parasitic spores or oaken doors...
I was once told I didn't hold the key, the key held me, for what it is worth.
You have such a concise gift of writing, within circumstances and experience, I really treasure, Cynth'ya.
The image shrink-wraps me, with its triggers...
Erin Elizabeth Kelly-Moen
Regis
Just once I'd love to have just a fraction of your brilliance in scribing meaningful, beautiful verse. This is absolutely stunning, mesmerizing poetry. Thank you, one of your best!
(((HUGS))) and love, Karla.
(((HUGS))) and much love, your friend in tx., karen lynn. :(
How true and how very aptly put! A statement that could well apply to people and circumstance with equal viability.
And also the surreal suggestion that fairy dust has expiration dates is quite clever and piqued my curiosity as to its inception in your creative process.
Richard
B&R