About This Author
My name is Joy, and I love to write.
Why poetry, here? Because poetry uplifts its writer, and if she is lucky enough, her readers, too. Around us, so many objects abound to write about. Once a poet starts with a smallest, most trivial object, he shall discover that his pen will spill out what is most delicate or most majestic hidden inside him. Since the classics sometimes dealt with lofty subjects with a lofty language, a person with poetry in his soul may incline to emulate that. That is understandable. Poetry does that to a person: it enlarges the soul and gives it wings. Yet, to really soar, a poet needs to take off from the ground.
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Green Peas at Stake #262322 added October 19, 2003 at 7:09pm Restrictions: None
Silently Lurking
A shadow wandering
under neon lamps,
still searching for a merciful gaze,
I, a fated tiger,
not as sleek or fast in my bony frame,
pray that the forest grows
apart from me,
and, if not to the sound of my roar,
the rapids run
down through time,
so part of me lives on.
Since in this arid circus
the ground is wrinkled with greed,
I stay silent
solitary, locked in,
though growling at gestures now and then.
What else is left when
people just recognize the fur I’m wearing
or the metals glittering on my collar
under moving lights?
If I am a prowler, so why am I the prey
to the whips snapping?
Am I an impostor beast
with little substance, yet waiting,
for their sticks to crack?
Or is my reflection a lie
conjured up by men of sinister deeds?
Is there nothing else to do but run around
in circles and stand on hind legs
for morsels of flesh?
Yet, I’m the one who got caught,
who exiled herself,
who built her cage bars from her own stripes.
So now, almost extinct,
wounded by lifelong blows,
I lurk
among the bookshelves
for words I need.
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© Copyright 2003 Joy (UN: joycag at Writing.Com). All rights reserved. Joy has granted InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and its syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.
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