Transcendence.

A pondering over nature of art and subjectivity. Why must poetry and art be framed in accordance with one reality? This poem attempts to explore the experience of possessing a distinct perception.

Transcendence.

I stood in middle of patterned walls, 

Peach, and pinks, and purples,

Emergence of an iconoclastic dawn, 

And antiquities lay naked, wide open. 

Like an apparition, I

Smudged past the spaces of 

A picturesque light within framed

Night of eloquent borders 

A river, a tree, a land, a house, 

Almost a home, almost by the sea, 

Almost variegated, but checked, 

By indolence of symbolism. 

Twisted bodies, like stripped vines, 

Reach towards signification of signifier,

And I admire the vacant skin, 

The decadent eyes, 

The mouth stitched by a slit,

And I bequeath a string of secrecy

To be worn around neck, 

Damasked by stones of hush and 

Mosaic voices. 

I smell, I gaze, I touch, 

Sun stained pages of a stitched book, 

Lyricism etched upon frail pages

Of precipitated reality, 

And two shapely eyes, scowl and judge, 

And I stand, I watch, I hold, 

But I don't dissolve in symbolism, 

I don't melt the voice in my head, 

Which speaks in another tone, 

Which speaks in foreign words,

Which speaks in alienated voice, 

I don't melt that speech within the 

Tutelage of allegory, that drags as symbol. 

A Tetris of metaphors, 

And I stand within the globe of warning, 

Watching the porous canopy shatter against

Myth of ancient earth, 

The skies, the ocean, the heaven? 

Where is the dome of my sun? 

Freckles of shiny, shimmering universe, 

Flow within tainted rivers of vacuum, 

And I construct lasting stairs

Through verdurous glasses of broken

Global dream. 

And the abyss speaks, 

In rhetoric that sounds like aphorism, 

"Isn't darkness a form of light if it entraps us?"

And I stood there, with slit fingers, 

Bleeds out my cynicism, 

Bleeds out my similes, 

And bleeds my defense of framed senses.  

Author's Note

Constructive criticism is always welcome, hope you enjoy it :) Images are downloaded from Google.

Reviews

[Alfred Kukitz]

To speak of your words is akin of asking the looking glass to embrace all of me and swallow the beautification of your words.
Remarkable writing!

regards,
al

[jacob erin-cilberto]

oh wow, we create a metaphorical world with our words...like the difference between paintings that just show scenes, and paintings that are surreal and have much between the strokes...poetry can have hidden meanings or blunt meanings...but it is our art...we can write it as we choose, or read it as we choose...
such a wonderful genre..and this poem speaks to me of that.
j.