I will always take offence, as though its
taking is my right, in that
one word I seek I believe to be
the Rosetta Stone
of your understanding of me.
You should have never spoken.
But I don’t know what
You had said for the fog to close in.
It was white. Yes, raging hot white.
You must know what I spoke
While I was under its spell.
I can’t seem to tell; I felt controlled
Down there, that crafty mist of misery made me
Twist my words into ropes to hang us.
Can I take back my words,
Unspool them somehow?
I have surfaced now
From a deep chasm of hate
And boiling taunts.
The air up here, freshly roasted and brewed
With an aftertaste of sulphur.
The continents are shifting, you are
Drifting away from me.
Fridays are too nice to feel elegiac so this is as deep as I wanted to tread the grief-filled waters. Sorry Writing 201, I will not lament (too much) on a Friday! However, I’ve always enjoyed testing metaphors. I use them as scaffolds to construct a thought. I still have much to learn about using them effectively. At times I build the scaffold too high for my thought to reach or too low to complete my thought, then the construction ends up looking shoddy and costing me too much. But you live and you learn, eh? Here’s another poem I wrote to practice the usage of figurative language (metaphors and similes) and meter; and one where the fog coloured my perception of life.