Familiar of soil am I.
I age more root than tree.
I wear the worm's blind mask.
I feed on twisted stone.
A bitter beast at heart,
and hollow to the bone,
become a green thing's source,
I go where blind worms go.
My secret kept alive
by bitter care and deep
pillowed against the cold
light of that world above,
couched here in soil and stone,
I make my home at last,
bitter at the bone
and fading, but not lost.
Sorrow becomes my hope.
Longing is my joy.
I make my way unwatched,
Unnoticed and unheard.
Secret in my pure
attempt at staying whole,
at home where blind worms go,
I seek myself alone.
All green things know my pain.
Whatever grows, is mine.
Root, tree, leaf, bursting forth
from soil to light, wear me
as an emerging shroud
and daily grow less blind.
It is my secret, this:
the green thing has my eyes.
Now let a green force spring
from twisted stone to light,
singing for joy and pain
in blind ecstatic thrust
of what has been against
the hope of what might be,
of all things lost, now found
in flesh that twines to me...
a poem of mine.
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Place: 25 out of 34 Avg (all users): 5.7683 Avg (commenters): 6.8333 Avg (participants): 5.5556 Avg (non-participants): 5.8281 Views since voting: 947 Views during voting: 224 Votes: 82 Comments: 11 Favorites: 0
I love the textures and color palette of this, and I felt it was under-appreciated in voting. Perhaps it is a bit abstract for most of us. Well paired with your verse.
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