Monday, June 16, 2008

choice

Labels: , 1 observations

Something intimate, on a metaphoric and philosophical level.

choice

I have chosen to return
to the ronin I am, and probably always was
when the glamour faded
and the serenades paraded into shaded realms
where truth is not malleable.
Sell me what you will,
the poison will make me ill
but I shall survive, if burnt,
bent, spent or bloodied,
allegiances muddied.
I am honing an edge
to take down a path
that rejects wrath and sorrow
as tomorrow hanging on yesterday's vines.
And I am fine being ronin.
And the sedge has withered from the lake
and no birds sing.
Until I will it.


William F. DeVault. all rights reserved.

1 observations:

Macadamia The Nut said...

Uncanny.. but La Belle Dame sans merci has always been one of my favourite poems. I still remember the words..

O what can ail thee knight at arms
Alone and palely loitering
The sedge is withered from the lake
And no birds sing...

Right?

Loved the way you wove it into yours

8:53 AM

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