Some poetry

Good grief, it's 6 in the morning here. And thats the late 6, not the early 6. I need to be up early tomorrow too, for something i really shouldnt oversleep and miss!

But anyway, for some reason, this had to come out. I finished reading Sandman (and what a magnificent, sad ending it had. Read Sandman.), and lay down on my mattress early, then spent another hour or so tossing and turning.

This is because, for some reason, poems floated around in my head. I dabbled in the art a long time back, with mixed results, and hadnt thought about it since. But i really couldnt sleep.

So i got up, switched on the laptop, and started writing. The words just flowed. I know what its like to try and force words through writers block (it sucks incredibly), and this was the exact opposite of it. It was like the lines had no patience to be written.

Its not particularly good poetry, but i love the feeling you get when words just flow from your mind onto the paper (or screen, rather). It is, ofcourse, a lovey dovey poem, but what to do, i honestly had no say in the subject or the words. They all just came. And here it is.

Surprisingly relevant too, i must say.

"The Evening Stroll"

I went a stroll one pleasant dusky day,

My mind weighed down, troubled, in dismay.

For I had a problem, a tough little pearl,

And there were no answers to this certain girl.

So I said to the Sun, overseeing my path,

“Do I love her?”

He said: “Is she your light, does she warm your soul,

Would losing her be a fate unbearably crool?”

“Yes, yes, yes”, I returned, to the Sun in the sky

“Yet is that really love?”

There was no reply.

So I turned to the Moon, Sun’s sister in the heavens;

“Do I love her?”

She said: “Does she fill your nights with a soft glow,

And make you feel you’re in a dream and more?”

“Indeed she does”, sister Moon heard my cry

“Yet is that really love?”

There was no reply.

Next I met a fine strong Tree, tall and green and old.

“Do I love her?”

He said: “Is she your shade when the world is too hot,

Your place of refuge, full of green and gold a lot?”

“That she is”, and I told the Tree why.

“Yet is that really love?”

There was no reply.

Then I came across a Rock, rugged eroded and dull.

“Do I love her?”

There was silence and will be till the end.

For rocks don’t talk, my silly little friend.

Then I met a bright blue Bird, fluttering merrily around.

“Do I love her?”

He said: “Does she make you break into song,

Fly free and high all day long?”

“Perceptive you are,” I watched the Bird fly

“Yet is that really love?”

There was no reply.

Finally down came the Rain, torrential and fierce.

“Do I love her?”

She said: “Does she wash clean your heart and remove all strife,

Renewing and restoring all in your life?”

“Everyday!” I shouted, as I tried to keep dry

“Yet is that really love?”

But again, there was no reply.

Finally I was home, and in the Mirror where I’d been,

I saw a face none the wiser for all he had seen.

“Do I love her?” I asked, for the seventh time dead

I got a shrug; “You heard what they all said!”

“Yes, I did, But is it really love? I’ll never know, however hard I try.

Silence. “But does it matter?” finally came the last reply.