My CherubA Poem by AtticusBlack
'When we remember we are all mad, the mysteries disappear and life stands explained.' Mark Twain. 'Life is a tragedy for those who feel and a comedy for those who think.' La Bruyere.
(The story of a dear friend)
Along with the deranged she looked,
All in all, relatively subdued.
Although, I knew of her feelings etched
Alongside the woes of her childhood.
Being for what it was intended, St. George’s was,
Broadly, no different to any other asylum.
Beds against white washed walls, lunatics with their
Bodies strapped to their beds, straight jackets and all.
Her image, girlfriend, perplexity
And her awkward upbringing all contributed,
But, she said herself, ‘once a cutter, always a cutter’
And always a cutter she was.
Could she perhaps be, in an alternate reality,
Comfortably sat in her rocking chair on the porch?
Children, namely Kevin, William, Rose and Poppy,
Cantering around her with not a worry in the world.
Definitely, I could never doubt this, there would be a
Delightfully delicious cake baking at 180
Degrees Celsius, and it would be ‘utterly
Delectable, if I may say so myself!’
I remember so vividly
One day in the month of August when, cliché intended,
We sat in a meadow of upmost beauty,
The birds darting over and around our tent with
Unbelievable accuracy, the farm dogs
That she threw water over. Perfection.
Eloquent as she was, and open as she liked to think,
Excluding her detailed descriptions of her sex life, she
Evaded ever showing us the real her, that’s
Essentially why I can’t decide: sorrow, or bliss?
© 2010 AtticusBlack
Shelved in 1 LibraryAdded on January 10, 2010
Last Updated on February 9, 2010
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