A strange kind of lonely
To be stood in such a place
you have to come from alone.
It’s not an edge, I never tumble
or a ledge, I never fumble.
A border
over which I step.
Sometimes It’s like a dance,
a waltz-like romance.
But alone.
Even God’s not there
and though I stare
I see nothing I want to,
no choice, no free will
only a knowing to never
or a what will be forever,
don’t waste the dawn sunny Jim
was sung somewhere else.
Why does the peony look sad
maybe it feels bad
it can’t bring good fortune
a fraud.
I step back from madness,
into a strange kind of lonely
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From the well chosen art work to every last word, perfection! A poignant piece that flows beautifully. Love the peony!
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Thank you Lynn, if you took that step with me it would perhaps be you who needed a hand held this time ! ha ha !
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Ha, lead the way!
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You have manage to capture this feeling perfectly in your poem Nigel. Those last two lines sum up the fine line between madness and a strange sanity. Is this a state that drives us to poetry?
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It is intriguing Davy, hate to harp on about it but my meds have such an impact in terms of lucid and vivid dreaming/hallucination anxiety/depression that I feel you’re correct. At times such as this p.m I literally can’t stop the ideas and images .I’ve written 12 in the last hour and throw most away simply because there are so many. Tomorrow I’ll probably be becalmed. Strange stuff.
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It is a gift Nigel how you are managing to get them out in the poetry you write. Maybe the discarded ones will be there for the calmer days?
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Again you’re right Davy about a gift, though I see it as safety valve, a way of mastering the demon’s. In fairness I’ve always had a mind that won’t still hence a lot of my words are about peak experiences, finding peace, philosophy and spiritual interests.
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