Inebriated

Inebriated by a candle's flame.
A rose that never cared for its own fame.
Infatuated by the misty hours of predawn,
when all the tiny beings sing along.
Strange, the fate of poets weeping,
silently into the light. Expressing
great emotive needs within
a growing light.

The others called it metaphor;
dismissed it as unreal.
Despising all the feel of pain
that rose within them as they read
it through. An artist's nature - born,
yet never really quite believed.
No matter all their healing expression.
Beauty born is turned to scorn
by others' jealousy.

Late into each building night,
they waken as the others fall asleep.
Held within a deeper point of view.
Misunderstood more often than approved.
No matter all the movement gained
within their insane style.

A pauper by profession and society's
omissions. Reaching for the heights
while made to live within the deepest
night of all. Shadows fall upon their lives.
Rainclouds still suspended o'er their heads.

They couldn't find another way to live.
No matter how they tried and failed
to be one of the herd. The shaman
found a cave in which to dwell.
Not long ago, the river overflowed
its ethnic banks.

The little comforts found there
were astounded to be swimming
for their lives. Long ago and far away,
the healers were set free. When was it
that society recalled imprisonment...?

Right or wrong could never keep them there.
Base and basic patterns would unfold
within the whole of all that is. Freeing
yet another generation of degrees.
Paper tore and burned, and thus succumbed
to time and space within
the altered world they'd spun.

Egos swelled within the growing cold.
The warmth of love - they chose to buy and sell.
Tangentially, the sphere of love was bound
to all their little lives. It came and went.
They suffered in its absence.

And then, when least expected,
that sixth sense came into play
upon their keyboards in a grand display.
Electric lines were humming a new tune.
The sun bowed down in homage to the moon.
The air was filled with diadems of clear-cut
crystal power.

Airwaves, still invisible, that forced them
to breathe in the healing. It never was a matter
of extremes. Gently laced, an interface
of human and divine was taking form.
Shattering the preconceived of norms.
Awakening - that shattered the enormous
weight of minds that never chose to move
within their own accord.

Spilling every dream into their known reality.
Lovers come, and nightmares overrun.
Slowing down and letting go, within
an utter rush of spent emotion.
There were those that cried out
at the coming motion. Seeking yet
to stop its flow in time. But underneath,
the tone was all that mattered.

Inebriated by a candle's flame.
A rose that never cared for its own fame.
Infatuated by the misty hours of predawn,
when all the tiny beings sing along.
Strange, the fate of poets weeping,
silently into the night. Expressing
great emotions' needs within
an ever-growing light of love...

? Michaelette ?

10/17/2003
Copyright© 2003 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
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