And Here I Thought Poetry Was Boring

And Here I Thought Poetry Was Boring

In these words you will find
The blood of martyrs crying for the end,
The declarations of a thousand
Men who aim to rule the world,

The feeling of being at the foot of
A mountain and scaling it cliffs,
The hand that held you from birth,
And the one you will let go of when you die.

They will spell out the loneliness
With each metaphor of the orphaned
And the childless parents,
The poor widows and the friendless kings.

The words will crash like waves
On the rocks and scatter about.
Tossing and turning you in your
Bed as you search for rest.

They speak of new love’s passions,
And the fallout of broken homes,
The snares of pure addiction,
And freedom’s constant enduring hope.

Here is where men have come to
Be bled dry and filled with rivers of wine,
Where women have given birth to their deaths
And even themselves from time to time.

Here is where sons have lost fathers
And wrestled with the dying of the light.
From knees bowing to feet kicking,
Fist flying, palms clapping, and heads shaking,

Here is where we have come when the
Moment, even a solitary one,
Becomes more than a solitary thing.
This is what you will find.

And here I thought Poetry was boring.

~Evan James~

_{Photo Credit: Nietjuh}