Cry, O...
Her body sleeps, all Disney-caged;
A glass window, like blue eyes glazed,
And trapped as well, behind flitting eyelids --
A fearful spasm of jagged iris.
No prince foretold by dashing thunder
To rouse her from a waking slumber;
The roses curl and flex, possessive;
And moss presides, and grows; progresses.
She packs her life in igloo ice
And waits for worlds to turn to white,
For frost to grace her cell's clear dome;
For heart to slow, vein thin, alone,
And motionless, a songbird dying
In its golden kettle and silent crying,
The world in spectrum mystifying.
One life, unlived, sleep underlying.
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
Cry, O..., which
was posted on Jan 17, 2012 by
Miserabilia.
This is a solo poem.
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This poem is filed under:
Imagery
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