Hi everybody! I am new here, so what better way to break the ice than to share a poem?
I realise that I am opening myself up to all sorts of criticism, but hey, who cares? Bring it on!
I wrote this a while ago but have recently added some lines for clarity and rhythm.
It is open to interpretation, but I did have a set idea in mind when I wrote it.
It currently has no title. Also, please feel free to add your own poetry to this thread, or suggest a thread where mine might sit more happily.
Please feel free to comment. Thanks for reading!
Rob :-) (Starnadohunter)
There is a great building
Atop a great hill
No person has walked there
Yet all live there still
Our dreams and discoveries
The endless dimensions
In the grey courtyard
A great tree grows
spreading its branches
The sap cracks and flows
With all that is known
Both now and before
A living reflection
Of knowledge and lore
like rotting fruits
From slender threads of truth
In the great tree of knowing
(Truth, when glimpsed, that glistens and glimmers and fixes the eye,
casting warm light on the lies around it
so that all seems truth)
Hanging with painted vessels,
Cracked, seeping acid,
That drip the blinding corrosion
Of faith beyond reason
Blinded we are
To the ends of our ways
By the lies that bring comfort
And entrap our weak gaze
A thousand ghosts of truth long corrupted
And we lie and lay drunk on the fruits’ putrefaction
Vile juice stains our lips and our words and our kisses
And we think ourselves clever, oh how clever are we!
And see not the dead and the dying
Yet still the tree flourishes, tended with care
By the careful, the brave, the people who dare
To question the liars, the haters of change
The slightly deranged
who try to restrain
with lies of impossible places
A dream, strangely human, to see long-gone faces
So hard to resist, the promise of beauty!
The truth is far stranger, the true path is lonely
though the earth ‘neath the tree
Be fertile and rich
The fools dig their trenches, a foul stinking ditch
In the courtyard of flowers
The blooms of great thoughts
The boughs of the hours
In search of a miracle
They see not the truth
But that which is real
Holds more beauty
Than a thousand lies
She weeps when we tie her in knots of brute language
For her subtlety is endless and our minds far too small
So we hold ever tighter to the lies that surround us
The scratching of fools on the great library wall