Posts Tagged ‘reality’

“Reality has a funny way of contradicting our firmly held beliefs.”

~from Yangki Christine Akiteng.

I like this quote, because it can be so true.

Fortune

Posted: May 25, 2014 in Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Fortune- in Reality-

favors not just the Brave,

but those with Wit enough

to regard the Grave.

 

In the dead of night I wake

and go to the mirror.

All is black except

for the yellow light between my reflection

and the real me.

What I see in the mirror is

two halves.

I am flesh on one side,

phantom on the other.

Oh, but this is frightening!

None could understand it,

for even barely do.

My right half is frail and frightened,

brown dots and blemishes rising

from pale skin to pronounce

this look of fear.

But the phantom on the left side of me

smirks. It is more solid than my right half,

it is iron!

No matter how warm and wistful my right side:

unfolding one palm upward, like a flower,

an offering to a warm and delicate, feminine hand;

my left side sneers revealing its serrated teeth,

the marks of its ferocious appetite

with white drool streaming from inside its maw,

but all the while an innocent lily-like glow

in its eye.

What is this apparition?

A manifestation of internal struggle?

Hallucination? Nightmare?

Or is it merely what I’ve written it to be?

Something twitches,
the world’s not right,
or perhaps it’s all in my mind.
I would focus on something so trite;

I would call
a shadow’s glimmer to light,
so my friends could disbelieve me.
They stand firm, I’ve not earned that right.

I would harass myself
with imagined snarls of slight.
Those are real to me,
I’m not here…quite.

Yet, I have no time
for keen insight,
I am gazing…
gazing into that black pit called “night”.

I am tumbling up
where stars burn bright.
I am losing my imperceptions,
I am losing sound Sight.

If you could lift these wounds,

peel them off like children’s stickers;

if you could house my faint heart

drumming under your arms,

my face pressed against the maternal warmth

of your chest.

if you could see me;

infantile, sobbing over scarlet cuts and scrapes,

the opening of my innocent skin– this Earth’s first incision.

My darling, my friend,

of whom I know so much and still

so little,

would you be there?

Would the hole in your chest contract,

and your starry-eyed glitter of dreams

recede into your pupils

so you could wholly see the crimson blood of reality?

My darling, my friend,

would you extract yourself

from your fragrant life of new suitors

just so you could cup the softness of my temples

and cool the agitated flare that beat, beat, beat

such a racket against my skull?

If you could take an excursion

from the humdrum sidewalks

and lost-luster neon so we could venture forth

into the dark and endless green, the contained infinity of the natural,

would you?

My dear dear friend, would you?