Shepperd

December 13, 2007 § 2 Comments

Her gates are sealed
And she’s all booked up till May
She doesn’t need anybody
With a row of dimes
To offer her space in time
“What’s time”, she asks?
Time is just a fantasy
What belongs to her is the sum
Of a ray of light which beams
Forth from her eyes
When looked upon
She knows she’s being watched
But she doesn’t care
She has nothing to worry
Her feet have been walking
In mud all the way to the city
Her hands are reminiscent
Of corn drawing sticks
She cannot draw or write
Or see
Without the love in her life
That she needs the most
Microscopic
Her face is like jewels
Worth more than she knows
Yet she hides behind closed
Gates in the night
With heavy burdens
If only she could talk to me
And tell me
Something
She is ill
Feverish with chills
And has to pay
Now for all her sins
Everyone’s, she floats
Out of her mind across the
Brush, the thicket
And holds onto something
Something you would never
Dream of holding onto
Another kind of brush
I come closer to take a look
And she’s painting the sky
She dips her brush into her
Wounds and screams, not for…
She is not jealous or hates
No one for inflicting her with false hope
Or lingering lies
She is the extreme desire
Of truth
As I stand back to view what
She has written
She speaks me to me
Go now and so I do
But, I can’t, hey, but be curious
What she created
So I turn around
And see a blood filled sky
She’s the painter
The poet of life
Who was always there…
Walks with the Shepperd

Who threads my past,
Present, and future
The clone of time…

 

© Sonya Rose

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§ 2 Responses to Shepperd

  • Angelique says:

    Wow. This piece really spoke to me. I can see bits of myself in both the painter and the narrator. By the end, I was nearly in tears.

  • Sonya Rose says:

    Thanks. I’m always a firm believer to “paint your heart out” no matter how painful it is. It’s a wonderful release to get it all out–your emotions … you never know whose heart–you might touch in the process.

    Have a good day 🙂

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