Wednesday, 7 January 2015

Pooled






The first verse comes in time, falls into place
as a pebble into a pool; smooth the surface
once the ripples are gone, no-one gets to know
the magic of panic, adrenalin glow
emitted in psychedelic shrieks.
They come by, some notice the silky-sleek
grey waters with an old gold sunset thread;
some notice only the slow-motion tread
of tentacles in the deep, most skip the whole.
Because the pool isn’t what they stole
out for; not even the crooner cares for the poolside song;
the pebbles too shift, move around, move along.
The final destinations always lie past
the skirts of waters and verse in the dust.










2 comments:

  1. Very deep Nila. Are you saying we lack understanding...miss the point? Hope I didn't miss the point...:~)

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    Replies
    1. Nope. Of all the people who read here, you are the least likely to miss the point. :-) This one's more about the poet than the reader. On second thought, aren't they all? :D

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