Long ago in my mis-spent youth, I used to exert a great deal of my passion in writing poetry. Every once in a great while I dust off some of those old sheets -- just to remind myself who I've been.
Hung
Feeling so
hung,
to find my soul
Stretched out to sunbake, brittle,
Cracked and sore. So one would
Come across me in a meadow --
Unforgiving afternoon! --
And there annoint my head with oil,
Too parched to cry aloud for rain,
And leave me there alone to perish,
Slow and languishing in pain.
So real it was -- that moment that
Was stolen from a dream!
I could have tasted it forever,
Moist and brazen like a lover.
The dream calls out, "Unhand my child!"
I must return that moment to
The other sphere. I cannot keep
It with me here.
So
hung
am
I
To steal another
Moment in the shadows as
They stretch from tree to tree across
The meadow, reaching out to shield
My dying and deserving soul.
The sun is not amused...
Donna Carrick
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