holding close to beauty

Poem #43 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction


if I dream you
just right
you will have magnificent wings
with which to fly

but how
can I let myself
release you

scissors
or shears

I must stretch
your so-beautiful
white wings

it is your remiges
I must cut
those snow feathers
that I dreamed

to keep you close
my darling one

~

.

.

.

.

you are not
in any way
useful

you are not
beautiful
any more

poor crippled thing
there is no place now
for you
in my imaginings

once
I thought you
the height
of all my grace

elegance and poise

I said you
I spoke your name
in my mind
underneath my breath

you fired my soul
you were my light

but now you are
just
here

you do not soar
you do not fly

I look
but cannot see you
as once you were

I know I know
I know
it was me
who cut your wings

I know
that it was me
who tied you to the ground

but
what of that

I did what I must do
and now
I will
again

what choice
have I

it is my nature


© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #44: that is all

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