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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 02-June 13:53:49 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 78957
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Icarus
[time] => 2005-01-08 04:11:29
[hometext] => I've been trying to finish this for so long I'm just going to post it before I get another bright idea and have to start from square one again.
[bodytext] => “Glass doors jingled merrily to signify depart; As every man can understand, the end is but a start. Where steps adrift embark upon the echoes of the heart Dreams can be a great panache— —But death is truly art.” From his seat behind the counter, the clerk could not decipher; His eyes stared out in wonder as the swinging doors swung shut. His customer a well known-friend, his purchase quite peculiar, And no one ere had used it short—so why’d he get it cut? The gentle waft of coffee brings its bittersweet entice, But taste was not in order as the teacher paced in thought; His brightest child was listless and no reasons could suffice: Why would the sixteen year-old just mumble he forgot? Two eyelids sharply narrow as indifference turns to ire; A furrowed brow of wonder pulled itself along the street. Contemplating mystery, the handyman for hire Walked his dog on anyway, assuming it a leash. Despite his eerie silence his two eyes were narrow slits, For in his house so suddenly not all was as it should; He propped his legs upon it every evening, floor lamps lit: The old man’s stool had disappeared from where it always stood. He’d seemed in thought this evening when he made his daily trudge, The mother’s thoughts entangled in what reasons there could be; His skin still tender from her strikes, yet he never held a grudge, “So why would he go straight upstairs and without a look at me?” His smile sprained in seven spots and easy gait replaced An exuberant sixteen year-old wrote all he wished to say His writing neat as ever and so delicately spaced A laugh became a whisper as he kicked the stool away. (And no one tells you why or how he tries to kill himself; No one ever wrote the book on how to tie the loop; There’s not a book that educates such matters on the shelf; His knot was just above the spot he’d asked to cut the hoop) — —— — —He nearly heard the seraphs sing, The world’s most content myope; He dreamed to fly but burnt his wings, From hell to heaven he eloped. Yet back again his fate did bring This broken record’s final hope Such a quick and easy thing... —Oh why, Oh why, did he cut the rope? [comments] => 6 [counter] => 320 [topic] => 36 [informant] => EternitysLyre [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Suicide )
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