Still, without purpose, seeking the aimless goal. I abide. Tired of the flipped pages, the editing and erasing, I rest here within. The nectar, I offered to myself, has been received; the glass is almost empty. Why seek to refill endless rounds? Meaningless is the continuance, a shard of some forgotten evening. My embrace holds the white page and closes its eyes; the keys begin to slowly click. Full of memories, of duty and dreams, shall they grow idly grounded. Does it matter to them, that I remember at all, the potential once felt resounding.
I'm sorry if I offend you by completley misinterpreting your poem, but I think I have one that relates (to my interpretation of it). swim in my sleep feeling phantom limbs time has become synthetic and thick dripping through my veins and dreams wake to find no one shadows facing west sun on the wrong side smell the new season permeating in nothing reach out to phantom limbs
this one seems to voice the dullness of depression, that it's all an attitude, or perspective, almost.... at least, that's what I see I love this line, and the whole ending-- the entire thing, actually... starts out with vivid images, moves into the reflective and you work the personal and philosophical so effectively; you never cease to amaze!
You know, I like the form. And with form comes control. And with control, power. The mood's reflective and there's a strong sense of personal rescue here mixed with all that's fragile and futile about our hopes and dreams. But there's one thing I'd do differently- I'd avoid the syntactical inversions that can diminish some lines. There- and now you can tell me to shove off.
Thank you. Your comments were very insightful and helpful. I appreciate your time and energy. I don't on a rule compare, but in this case your feedback was as perceptive and knowledgeable as fulmahs' always is. Much love.
This part is indeed philosophical, I hear the power of memories here and what grasp they hold inside our minds... "Does it matter to them, that I remember at all, the potential once felt resounding." Sounds like a starting over, renewal kind of a poem. Refilling, blank pages, awaiting....
