Temple

This is a temple – my body:

Surrounded by a million thornless roses, and ever-fruitful trees; guarded under the watch of a thousand devoted men; fertilized and tended by the highest caretaker of all.

This garden of my body, where no weeds grow, no flowers wilt, and no fruit rots is under siege.  An impatient enemy waits outside the white picket fence, planning and calculating his attack.

The destruction – irreparable, enormous, uncomprehensable. This body, this garden, this temple, bombed in a war I was always against.  Desecrated beyond recognition, all evidence of perfection gone.  Wasted, a wasteland, a waste of land, now that it’s impeccable spectacle is in the past.

This wreckage, this enormous wreckage, is looming, so huge that I don’t even know where to begin the repairs.  A new temple must be built, new flowers must be planted; the beauty and awe of old have expired.

Picking up a shard at a time, I think to myself: “What’s the point?  Bombs will continue to fall.  I will just have to keep building again and again for all eternity.”

So I quit, and I sit down, and I learn to embrace the destruction as if it were beauty.

I have been defeated.

Reviews

[Coyote Poetry]

From defeat we learn to walk with eye wide open to the good and bad things. A excellent poem. Started with a powerful lines of hope. Ending with defeat and a lesson learn. A outstanding poem.
Coyote

[Gigi]

Aww, it's so sad. Why darlin'? *hug*