by J. P. Davies
On a whim you could draw me
paint me in a thousand colours
or in progressively darker shades
in spite of all that you have wrought
there will be an essense of something:
I am the dream you can never hold on to
slipping icicly through the fingers of your mind
forgotten but still lingering
on edges of conciousness.
You will not let this die.
You write me up like a story
written by Edgar Allan Poe.
All quiet you lay me down
upon the tarn by The House of Usher.
Gifting me with qualities
and mockeries of horror
one day you woke up
and found the world had changed
and so you painted a picture of me
to remind you to forget.
Posted on 06/02/2006
Copyright © 2020 J. P. Davies
|Member Comments on this Poem|
|Posted by Rula Shin on 06/02/06 at 07:34 PM|
I like this a lot J.P. and the ending is a beautiful paradox, "so you painted a picture of me to remind you to forget" - indeed we must trick ourselves if we are to UNDO what has become so deeply rooted, "the dream...forgotten" on the surface "but still lingering" in the depths of the subconsious. Yes, how ironic that we must remind ourselves to forget. In order to turn a somebody into a nobody, you first have to face the associations of their image within your self...you have to face your self. That's what I saw. Great piece!
|Posted by Trisha De Gracia on 06/02/06 at 10:59 PM|
Seemingly accurate, though there is always a difference between the picture an artist paints, the subject that precedes it, and perception in between.
|Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 06/05/06 at 04:48 PM|
One of your best up till now in my opinion, and a new favourite of mine. Killer close out in that last stanza. Thanks for posting this J.P.