the climb

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  • Hate

    the climb

    Breaking hot stones
    With fingers frozen by love’s
    Icy cold hate
    I will body to obey
    And rise higher
    On this wall of sick sad dreams
    That I pull down
    Piece by chunk as I climb up
    To reach the top.
    Long as I don’t move too slow
    You wait and watch
    This soul’s vertical ascent
    That makes no sense;
    For every rock I pass
    Gets thrown, torn down
    At your kingly golden feet:
    An empty crown
    Surrounding and enclosing,
    Now an empty
    Hole I climbed into to fall.

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    lightcourier commented on the climb

    05-19-2009

    nice work! Thanks!
    Reply to Comment

    Poetry is not an expression of the party line. It's that time of night, lying in bed, thinking what you really think, making the private world public, that's what the poet does.

    Allen Ginsberg (1926-1997) U.S. poet.

    morgainecnyll’s Poems (45)

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