Controlling Beauty
(a poem)
When does a Rebel,
Lose their joy?
When does a bird,
Lose it’s song?
When it is gilded and caged,
And told this is the way it has to be,
From now on.
When its wings are cut,
And it is forced never to fly again.
Then it’s joy,
Begins to fade.
And the night,
Becomes a cloudy day.
A pale autumn moon.
A star lit night.
The morning breezes,
The sun’s delight.
Fades into a clouded fog.
Of so this is,
And so this was.
Why for me,
They wish to control?
When I need freedom.
I need to fall.
I rarely break away from the norm.
So when I do,
Let this be my storm!
But into a bottle,
You try to keep it.
Trap the storm,
And try to seal it!
And I become,
Like a lifeless doll.
Like an empty shell,
A decoration upon a wall.
Not truly there,
But to look upon.
A wonder of creation.
Gone wrong.
When once was beauty,
In the air!
Floating,
Soaring,
Free without a care.
Then came the poachers,
To steal away,
Arrows flew,
And skies turned gray.
Please my heart,
Do not tie me down.
Do not cage me up,
Within a frown.
Do not push me into that damp dark box.
From where the wind,
Cannot touch.
From where the light of day doth only gleam.
And the light of a moon,
Is far away seem.
Do not force this structure,
Upon my world.
And kill the living things,
Below.
For what was once a perfect scene,
Becomes a trashy,
Wasted,
Latrine.
And no one comes,
Save for the roaches.
That live and die,
For death approaches.
And through their scurrying,
The only sound.
The sorrow,
Of a frozen ground.
A crack that lie there,
In the cement.
The only memory,
Of a beauty spent.
A truly vacant lot,
For rent.
~ 11-28-17
CLynn 😪
