Standing on a ledge of light
with darkness lapping at the edge,
waiting to engulf me and the world,
as ravens of resentment
strain towards the night
from deep inside,
their wings unfurled
against flight long denied,
I shudder with the movement
of a door that opens on a sigh,
the cage imprisoning the heart
left vacant as bleak shades depart,
and bars that were invisible
relent, then melt away like stars,
while somewhere in the sanctum
a bell sweetly chimes the angelus,
calling the purified to vespers,
tolling at the edge of time...
The Bell
© Copyright: Jena Woodhouse, 2006
Свидетельство о публикации №106021100673
Свидетельство о публикации №106021100673
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Excellent poem and tour de force of poetic expression ! Subtle alliterations and metaphors. Stunning !
Vlanes 14.02.2006 10:58 • Заявить о нарушении
Vlanes 14.02.2006 10:58 • Заявить о нарушении
Thank you, Vlanes. I think you are the only one who sees and understands.
Jena Woodhouse 14.02.2006 12:57 Заявить о нарушении
Jena Woodhouse 14.02.2006 12:57 Заявить о нарушении