Dear God...will you find me...
I am a poet,
buried beneath mountains,
buried beneath heaps,
of trivia,
of non-essential,
un-original,
crap.
Even though,
the heart tries,
the mind conceives,
this beauty and this garbage
fall on me...
muting words...
killing prayer,
drowning hope,
givings sent forth,
sorrows buried
silently somewhere...
beneath this mountain here...
God help me...
God...
are you there?
What wave come next,
what burial of apocalypse...
to wash away the poets words...
to lay them in the everlasting muck...
of mediocrity...
to blend them into poverty,
as if they never were?
God, I am down here...
screaming in the waste,
of scavengers who want,
no poets anymore.
Will you come save me...
am I written in the book,
or is that buried too,
among the many, here...
forgot?
Written By Bruce James Clyde 2016
Photo Credit: Laura Watkinson, 10,000 ton stinking heap of garbage
From deep in the trees I find thee and thy words hidden deep in the roots of your life. Through poetic verse you shed light on your very soul. Jane
ReplyDeleteI can never shut my soul off or up. It is my lighthouse, marking the reefs of difficulty...perhaps, to alert other unwary sailors. It screams...it cries out...it is the unruly and hopeful, child part.
DeleteThank you Jane, for your one small voice, in my forest...bless you always, richly...your words were sweet and kind...me.