Eyes Struck Blind

3 Comments

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  • Philosophy

    Eyes Struck Blind

    burning pages of metaphors
    the gritty smell of smoke
    taste of ashes left in the brain
    washed down the chasm
    by tidal waves of rain
    burning days youthfully spent
    blissfully unaware as life is left bent
    broken street signs in new haven
    wishing for the rainbow to return/
    and light the fires for the things we need to burn
    walking this road and the one up ahead
    waking up slowly with our memories of the dead
    and of course we wonder
    if god still breathes
    the notion of grass and the blowing of leaves
    each lifetime a childhood we cant leave behind
    as we struggle to assimilate
    behind eyes struck blind

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    danmartyjake1 commented on Eyes Struck Blind

    12-08-2009

    Clever use of words and draws a clear picture for the reader, indeed. I enjoyed the journey... you are talented..

    AmadeusEx

    12/08/2009

    thank you...check out my newer ones if you get the time

    Marsink commented on Eyes Struck Blind

    12-08-2009

    Is this the blindness accrued in leaving behind the perception of youth? The eyes of a child behold wonder in the junkyard, while 'maturation' surveys waste. Great use of those metaphors, by the way! thanks for your 'wise beyond years' writing.

    AmadeusEx

    12/08/2009

    thank you for coming back to my page...this poem is one of the oldest i still have, most of my newer ones you have to search to find...i have 63 posted now so only the earliest still show, id be curious to see what you thin of those newer ones, i think my style has strengthened since i wrote eyes struck blind and heaven...thank you mars

    Madelynn commented on Eyes Struck Blind

    12-08-2009

    I have this thing say- that eyes are sewn shut, -or-they havent been washed clean! Apparently, your deep, blessed mind needs no explanation!-This is exactly what t means. You astound me with your mind, as well as your talent! Hats off to you,fellow poet!

    AmadeusEx

    12/08/2009

    this poem, though short, has always been one of my favorites, which is probably why ive kept it around for the past eight years or so...youre the first to read it too:) thank you so much for all the positive comments, im very pleased at your reaction :)

    A poem begins as a lump in the throat, a sense of wrong, a homesickness, a lovesickness. It finds the thought and the thought finds the words.

    Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

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