"Paris Burning"

Paris Burning

I write words to speak to you;

I know not how or who else

I can tell this to:

of the fragments that make you

and undo your vision, too.

The shrapnel in my eyes,

ears, nose and hands -

The order I was shot

I forget, and yet,

reflecting,

it blazes before me again.

I decode them here;

I deconstruct

into abstractions

to get to the heart.

"The Wanderer"

I love to write. I write when I'm happy, I write when I'm sad. I write whenever I have something to say, some feelings to express. I know I haven't been updating this space regarding my exchange and other reviews and such, but I'm having a tough week now, filled with work and some drama. Since I wrote this poem in a fit of catharsis, I'm going to post it here and let you have a glimpse into my writing. I have written many more poems but I have never published them here. Perhaps in time I will.

And now, for the poem.

The Wanderer

Now that I’m at Fancy’s door,

Myself, my oaths I did perjure

Now that I’m at Fancy’s hearth

I see that plaque of metal craft:

“All that glitters is not gold

Fare you well, your wish is cold”

Wish I had but wisdom more

To see the writing on the wall

As I lay, resigned to burn

There, inscribed upon my urn:

“All that is gold does not glitter

Not all those who wander are lost”

I rise, to find my ashes bitter

And to bear my golden cross

25.11.2012