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Turn It Up.

Wednesday, August 17, 2016

I think this qualifies as poetry

This poem was written at a rather low point. The circumstances are too private to reveal -- but I am glad to declare that they are over (persons in question are alive and well), and that now I have the courage to post this.

This one is not quite meant to be read from text, since it was written to be recited -- nonetheless, here goes.

Big Dreams

Tell me destiny is
Where it pleases
Me the most
Where it ceases
To be the denouement
Of everything you're meant to be;
Tell me
That it's flexible,
That it is still feasible
To fix what's not quite broken yet;
Tell me I need not fret --
No worries about your health;
Tell me: destiny is dealt
To those that are weaker --
But you, you're a seeker
Of greater things in life!
Oh tell me, if you must,
That you'll take the picket fence,
Children, dog, husband, wife --
But not this!
Not the Kiss
Of the Dementor
Not collapsing so hard
Right, front and centre
That this is where you go.
You were grand, you were brave,
But now you've gone and sunk so low.
Tell me what to say
'Cos I don't know any more,
Come back, angel, if you can,
Back where you belong
In the song
Of the sweet
And the righteous
In the ranks
Of the fighters
Tell me it's just a nightmare
That inside you, somewhere,
There is still the trusty mate,
The whitest wings! No twist of fate
Could make you turn around
On the dreams
That we had
Tell me
That I
Can still count
On that.


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