Poem Hunter
The Cocoon
(04 October 1943 / Germany)

The Cocoon

He sat, surrounded by the sadness of
the weeping willow tree,
its branches touched his hair
and stroked his cheeks, due to the breeze.
She'd grown so much, all in the span
of just one lousy year, and on the day
the locks got changed he left and cried
inside the crowded tram, he took it to
the final stop, as curious eyes accompanied
unsteady legs, down to the ageless creek.
He'd sat here many times though not alone,
they'd cuddled on the rough hewn bench
and watched the bats nearby, their silhouettes
like silent witches painted on the moon.
The memories brought goosebumps and fresh tears,
he'd missed his final chance, had laughed
at hints from deity as well as from his own,
subconsciously he had been warned, oh yes,
but like a careless child, invincible and loved,
he'd promised to his inner voice that someday soon
he'd surely be the man she'd seen in him back then,
the one he'd meant to be, and, come to think of it,
he'd earnestly believed to be. Oh dammit, man,
it really was too late, he'd always loved her eyes
and read them well, there was a depth he liked to find
in crazy dreams of nakedness and tangled nights,
they had regarded him without the threat of glacial ice
but he had seen that all the flames had perished now
and that the music in her soul had simply died.
Will you, dear God, give me the light of your own moon,
and send an angel to me bearing a cocoon,
I shall be happy to just slip inside and cry
and wait with patience for your hand to let me die.

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Comments (1)

Interesting, … allegorical nuances … 'graceful desire' …Course of life... it is pleasant to read... nice...