- my history
About Metamorphosis
A short story
ENATIONS:
a comfort and speedy song
you'll not find here, my friend,
for though for peace of mind you seek
it is not mine to give, much less keep.
so travel on some other way
for soon there'll be a day
in which the triumphs of your cheers
will fade away with the years.
in a misty haze tomorrow is always the same
tossed inside the weary mind
of some poor traveler, so unkind,
the fog of seasons lieth there
around the lamppost and the stairs
up which i mount my daily chore
to clean the gutters and the floors,
to cast away the residue
of countless millions who's been through
the torment of the spring's day
lost forever behind the haze.
intrigued we linger near
by the one we loved so dear.
with a temptuous song she lead me on
to a land of milk and bone . . .
through the frames of golden means
i tossed away my precious dreams
to behold that blinding sight
of two strangers in the night.
fantasies, dreams, and devilish schemes
lead nowhere, so it seems.
with withches stare and toadstool broth
i betrayed a holy cause . . .
to live on in the veil
of that one, the gwenabel . . .
caught up in the raptuous flight
i soon rode up the moonbeam's light
to catch a star that stood there
alone in the shadows of a nightmare . . .
hastily i arose in fear
of that one so near and dear
yet thought i how the time does fly
when someone lies at your side . . .
in joy and peace i relaxed into sleep
to dream on of the strangers i should meet . . .
again it was the gwenabel
with frankincense of beauty smelled
and onward together we sped
to cast our whims to the wind . . .
slowly though the distance died
behind the curtain known as time . . .
and with the rising of our star
the distance gone was found that morn . . .
the coarseness of a distant scream
is drowned out by a nearby stream.
a song of hidden eyes in silent nights
portrayed the hollowness of her plight
through rain-filled lanes and graveled ways
down the corridors, unpaved . . .
"it is i, it is i," she replied
when questioned by the sight
of war-torn lands lost to another's might.
Peace had came too late.
the cliff was high,
but the flight was short.
June 21, 2007
© Jerry Copeland