the myth
He is behind doors
harnessed to eternity.
picking on winds,
leaves when you enter.
As debatable as ourselves,
yet elusive to the eye.
he takes form in clouds,
shadows,fear and inquisition.
Garnering footprints
in the mind,
and to keep reckless children home
sometimes,
ill defined.
He mangles through mountains
in verses and epics
pinching iron-hearted scholars
wrestling,
the possibility
of an immaculate imagination
with tangible existence.
Leaping out of lakes
and tribe gilded forests
with his barnacles
lapped to the sky.
He watches-
often, dropping a finger
a robe, a sculpture,
a meandering hint.
In his prism,
he likes being unknown,
yet seeked.
Loathed, without reason
and worshipped for the same.
He lives in spaces,
habitable for belief.
Running through every nerve,
light-footed as a dream
He remains immortal and unborn.
And yawns,
like a gaping cave
at the thought of being discovered.
Poetry by ben
Read 766 times
Written on 2008-03-28 at 09:55
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