So, tried my hand at a really crappy short story last night, tonight I'm writing an equally crappy poem--well...at least I CALL it a poem...not really sure what exactly it is, truth to tell...technically, it's SUPPOSED to be an "epistle"--that's a poem in the form of a letter. Not sure if this one makes the grade, though.
But, like the short story, it's loosely based on something I wrote about 7 years ago for one of my second level English classes...something mum kept for reasons of her own, heaven knows what for.
Anyway...here's my "creative" rubbish for tonight: (And, please don't throw any rotten tomatoes at me...I've already had enough pasta sauce for one week, thanks.)
WALLS OF AIR, SOUL OF LIGHT
Dear God,
Living in this place, a soul
Like mine, feels trapped, like a fly
Buzzing pointlessly inside a bottle,
It wounds me.
Murky haze shields the beauty of
The stars in the vaulted heavens,
Clouding my sight,
Gas-belching, thundering, ear-shattering
Machines, ignore life
Anonymous,
They are blind to the passing
Landscape, leaves and earth tremble
As the machines whoosh and whine,
Deaf to the sounds of crickets and wind,
Stone cold, as mute as the grave, to
The living world
Which was created for us.
Yet, even amid the desperate and hurried
Rumbling, grinding, honking and booming,
I hear you.
The breeze stirs the poplar leaves,
Dancing joyously in the sunshine, not
Caring for the ignorance of automatons,
Saving the music of cosmognal life for the
Ears of those
Whom have the heart, the
Spirt, the soul. Those who take the time
To listen to the universe.
