Curled, cocooned and comatose,
each breath a laboured sigh
wings well furled, she never chose,
to lose the will to fly.
Fences built, both high and strong
protect a battered mind
but she's been hurting for so long
she feels as if enshrined.
Buried deep within her core,
the duelling demons live.
Maybe she could win this war,
if she could just forgive.
To pardon other's trespasses
is easier by far,
than dealing with this impasse,
internal and bizarre.
Yet a flame still glimmering,
professes hope not dead,
There is a hunger simmering,
demanding to be fed.
Comments
Silver Spun Sand | June 20, 2011 - 17:54
Loved the alliteration in the first line, Chris, which really drew me in to the poem:-
"Curled, cocooned and comatose...'
One of my many favourites of yours, certainly;-)
Tina xx
Nathan Bednarek | June 20, 2011 - 21:17
"Buried deep within her core,
the duelling demons live.
Maybe she could win this war,
if she could just forgive."
I just love this stanza. There is a great deal of truth and wisdom in this poem, poignant and touching as well.
A wonderful read. Well done.
Nathan.