Truth’s Debt: a Poem
Never discovered pride,
of mango orange talents that were dewy-eyed.
Never valued or duly paid,
yet, all about work or seeking work, made.
How can one forge belief in Self?
When faces, mirror ice shelves.
Ambrosia of risk taking,
is frozen, because of losing all and aching
Cycles of eleven sing,
one sharp key forward, rings,
with ten flat keys backwards, sings,
lemon chiffon dreamt up to sting.
Inner drive is euphorically defunct.
The outer jewel needs to be a carrot distinct,
so, spin the glitter ball,
of silver sand that bears the call.
I’m sitting in a teacup,
on tranquil midnight blue waters, freed up.
The storm has passed,
it is safe to believe contrasts.
Through a temporary fragment,
of honeydew green time stagnant,
the hurricane winds of false words,
leave me gaping like a hungry bird.
Waterboards present a fish out of water,
initiating a ducking into mortar,
that authors, solace,
through the blooming of imagination of the solus.
Society knows you,
through the weaving of status, appearance and goods hiatus.
Serfdom is the golden poppy kingdom,
where one becomes a victim or a Lincoln.
The question my sire spawns,
is, do I throw myself away as a yawn?
Because the crowd’s amethyst,
is ramming their way to a classic.
Enchanter and defender of the Soul,
closes the shutters of the heart’s field goals.
A redefining grace of self value,
others, though, deem this fallow and hollow.
Eons of loss and unrequited love,
flips the switch, creating a mourning dove.
Shrivelling the blush red,
into rigid stick ends.
Life cycles of eleven,
throwing one into dark lessons,
only to fight the swim,
to the surface of Apollo’s light rim.
Mountains and valleys of solids,
I’m in another dimension, the lollards,
only to be encircled by air,
which means yes, to Spirit dare.
The lightness of periwinkle blue,
author’s the story’s view,
of the death test,
set up in David and Goliath’s confess.
Others have stolen the tenderness,
love, children, pets of splendour.
Beauty, anniversaries, and work taken endlessly,
followed by beliefs and tolerances of secureness.
Something unknown begins to stir and pop.
Along the road of austerity,
the deed is done, and met.
The sword has been thrown down and kept.
Thank you for stopping by to read this poem.
© 2017 Threekeys