Maybe She Was The World

6 Comments

Maybe She Was The World


Maybe she was the world
Caught gracefully in the nets
That once caught everything beautiful
Before her

Maybe she had nothing
She had gold and emeralds
But they were not valuable

Maybe she's not real
Had it not been for for ink tracing lines and curves
And a mind for giving her a soul
Or a place to start

Maybe she's one of us
All of us, reflecting like mirrors as we pass by
Unaware of our steps
And careless of our paths

Maybe she's gone
Faded so gently into the chilled November air
As we start to walk again
Not knowing that we're already gone, too

Maybe we've all faded
Frail, sick, untamed creatures that ache inside
As if we all had no flesh, no bones
No real life outside of wrinkled pages and forgotten books

Maybe we're free
Like she was as the torn page slipped lightly into the wind
As it danced above our sleepy heads
Living our dreams for us

 

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ansari commented on Maybe She Was The World

06-16-2010

Thats a marvellous poem. I love it. a 10 from me. a visualization about art which is so mature and descriptive. thank you

deathbysociety commented on Maybe She Was The World

05-31-2010

i love that you give your words life, this one is one i can truly say that i love. i know that im a stranger to you, but its quite amazing.

SuperChick76 commented on Maybe She Was The World

01-06-2010

We are only faded if we allow ourselves to be. Very nicely written. A little more description in the beginng would be nice, just a little something so that the reader knows what you're talking about. Very nicely written, I loved the flow of it. And your phrasing was brilliant. Good job, Free :)

tcmckinney commented on Maybe She Was The World

01-01-2010

Thus mirrored in the hallways she brings illusion...The november air is turning and yearning. this poem is beautiful reality of illusion. strikenly chilling to the sensory projection. One of a kind, imtimate of true path...love this one. Very well done.

redbloodink commented on Maybe She Was The World

01-01-2010

Wow this is deep.... What a great WRITE.... The pen must have known the way... straight from the depths of your soul.... I felt it.....red

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.

FreedomFromFear’s Poems (8)

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Maybe She Was The World 6
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