Such silly, vital things, our names,
So cunning on the tongue!
The sound of mine will quickly bring
Me coming at a run.
/
From the right lips, it is a song,
Confession, promise, plea;
A piece of precious evidence
That whispers you see me.
/
It lends me meaning, lends me strength,
Gives me identity,
It holds me fast, my sure tether
Throughout uncertainties.
/
From a strange mouth, with a wrong tone,
It seems more like a curse.
Or when spat out, by one you love;
Can anything be worse?
/
Mine’s been a shackle and a balm,
A standard set too high,
But mine it is; I’ll have none else,
My soul-to-body tie.
//
About the Creator
Chloë J.
Probably not as funny as I think I am
Insta @chloe_j_writes
Yew Wood Doors
Before my eyes, a door is arranged from shadows—crafted of rich yew wood, inviting yet pressuring simultaneously—and I am hesitant to make contact with the brass knob and fall through to new shadows. I never do know if I can stomach mysteries that approach with such ease. Although I have to know what's there and when I look behind me, no candle beckons. I may hope the door will lock behind me. I know I have no key to return but perhaps one will glisten in the fog for me and I'll be allowed to open more yew wood doors on the other side.
By Andi Leigh2 days ago in Poets
Comments (1)
Love it! So clever and has a nice rhythm to it!