DS (270552 / Australia)

Ax Of Creation

I hold it. Gently.
In the palms
of both hands.
Like a captured,
thoughtful dove,
it is as delicate
and remote,
as a secret.

But then I seek:
not a greater
understanding,
not a higher truth,
but temporal fame.
Some sordid proof
of immortality;
a twist of reality.

My grip grows tight,
I squeeze: it fights.
The feathered down
explodes.
Red and white
and bloody,
the shatterred,
oblivious body,
falls,
and cracks
the ground.

I plucked
a fantail from the air.
I heard the Songbird's
music suite.
I quilled a message
from it's blood.
It was a poem.
Complete.

User Rating: 5 / 5 ( 0 votes ) 4

Comments (4)

a pondering write indeed..leaving us to think..great lines..symbolic and amazing
Maybe I'm not too far-gone; I guessed where this was leading. Still, I love the unfolding of the theme. (Have to say 'love' - - poor misused word.)
I read this numerous times and I am certain I shall return to read it again...there is something in it, like a resonance I have heard before
I wonder whether this is a comment on today's Poem of the Day, by Wm. Blake? A Robin Redbreast in a cage, Puts all Heaven in a rage. A skylark wounded on the wing Doth make a cherub cease to sing. He who shall hurt the little wren Shall never be beloved by men.