Stories

I’ve grown weary—wasted of—

Stories pandered by a weaker mind,

Written upon stolen ink, rhymed,

And forcefully forging tales of love,

Lamentation, bitterly unkind…

Hearted fables which remain mistimed.

I have sought and searched, dejected,

Brooded upon the secrets seized,

Moments written to make me ill.

I am misguided and misdirected—

I am sick, and plagued, and diseased

By stories that bind me still.

Hopeful awakenings are born to craze,

And at the same time, speak!

Telling of an irony, most intriguing—

Binding belfries and belonging—days

Captured by the subtle mystique,

Telling tales, I find, fatiguing.

But the legends withheld are thieving…

They are nothing—nothing if not art—

Trueness, being, survival and meaning.

Meaning! And belief from a spark!

Surely they have been built, in part,

To march… To march upon the ark!

The animals, in loving shapes,

Speak of why they have been woke.

The giraffes, lemurs, and finches too,

Hippopotami, cockatoos, and apes,

Have all learned of the madness spoke—

They’ve all sought shelter aboard the zoo.

Beastly tongues reminisce, two by two,

Wish ghastly thoughts to demons born—

Beings they have not met, but assume,

Are creatures who cannot be true.

More shameful looks have not be worn,

On the ark, as the flowers bloom.

           DannYetman

www.DanielYetman.com