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The Dark Rays Play Amongst the Garden

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  • The Dark Rays Play Amongst the Garden

    The slanting sun grows golden in its turning,
    What reflecting spheres have the chance to break --
    If only a wish would make the day, then unmake it.
    As to mistake, and to partake in delight unacceded.
    Portend to madness indwelling, a walk with out end.
    Stroll in the drowsy compartmented, poison Garden.

    Love shrieking through bars you can't get in,
    The ghost of an image thinner than smoke, unlike mist
    Stays here to hover about the beautiful bright shrubs.
    The dripping emanations of the morning light fills,
    Softly, and slowly, the rills of underwater deadness:
    Slowly, the scene barely changes.
    As the thick voluptuous stalks rise to meet

    From a center most forbidden, to chance upon rays
    Of pure sunlight like silver water to the roots
    Issued forth to concoct the ingredients, as later
    The fill of the staining hands will move from soil then.
    As footsteps that don't belong, needless to say,
    Inside the gates black, inside the Garden poison,
    Passion undoes what is prudent to undo:

    The silver lacquer over the image of this Place
    Nevertheless continues to spill, and doesn't change.
    And the lapsing moments while locked in the Gaze
    Her enchanted drab shrubbery, with bushes
    Where burn the deadly berries ...
    Like the indwelling spirit inside veins opens.

    A mouth to dare the day to stay:
    Locked within the watery mixture, sleepily
    I gray inside my frame, of years and hair
    Constantly, it grows while my mind it unlooses;
    I ungrow, somehow, now beneath the stars;
    Rapture happens behind the thick windows.

    To get in is most assuredly death,
    And disorganized as all things are, what
    They try to instill into notions that belong
    Elsewhere, do not take here; and so--
    Ambivalent, and strong like wrought iron,
    I hold the things in, I hold the things out.

    Inside the walls of this liquid and shining Garden,
    Where poison to the lips bleeds its profusion.
    And at the memory, of touch, it is forbidden,
    At the subtle scent which brings a vision,
    And the terrible madness brought upon by seeing
    What's behind there growing, being born,

    Inside darkness which confuses,
    Living death: the Poison Garden.
    Last edited by amenOra; 02-16-2018, 08:46 AM.

  • #2
    Although your poem
    is metaphorical
    and read to the last,
    Poisons founded
    The Physics Garden
    Hemlock, its philosophy lost
    on Socrates the Sophist,
    takes human life
    at no greater cost
    than any bug
    whose life is toast
    when nibbling
    this green repast.
    Last edited by Johntee; 02-02-2018, 08:09 AM.

    Comment


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      lovely sentiment! thanks

    • Muttado1sb
      Muttado1sb commented
      Editing a comment
      Interesting poem, amenOra. I wasn’t sure at first if you were writing about the Poison Garden at Alnwick Castle in England, and I’m still not sure if you were not.

  • #3
    Your poem is really interesting and full of deep meaning. I like it so much!

    Comment


    • amenOra
      amenOra commented
      Editing a comment
      Thank you barbarabryant for taking the time to read.

      Welcome to the site!

  • #4
    You are welcome! Thanks for the greetings! This is a real passion to be here

    Comment


    • #5
      Your phrasing paints vivid images on this one amenOra . Terrifying in the tenderness through which rephrased - but vivid indeed.

      Comment


      • amenOra
        amenOra commented
        Editing a comment
        Thanks for taking the time to read, RLW Take care
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