• Welcome to the Fantasy Writing Forums. Register Now to join us!

A Few Poems about Being Trapped

.
“Sisters at a Friary”

To and fro, nineteen friars hobble, blind. Apricot blossoms surrender
a lingering scent. In the courtyard, we sisters hold hands and twirl.
About the abbey a broken wall, like gravestones jutting out. It is the same
or is it the same?

Low hills force up yellow grass. Crests and troughs freckled by flowers
which taste bitter yet call to mind sweeter days, half-remembered days.
..........I don't .......... want to eat them anymore.

We braid apricot blossoms into our hair.
We feast on spoiled butter and crusty bread.
We see without being seen.
We love without being loved.

At night, cold night, we lay together beneath threadbare sheets
on a rusty cot. We close our eyes while the tide of night rises around us.
Phantoms enter our room, stirring up dust and memories. They lean over.
Our eyes are shut. We don't look. It is the same, always the same. Touch, touch
and breathe whispers on our faces........... I think ..........even the ghosts here
are blind.

We unravel endless days running through the hills, through the tall grass,
longing for something worth longing for. We skirt cities and towns
and people to see without being seen. In time, return to the friary
because it is better to be unseen, unneeded.

I know now. You are the only one who sees me.
When we hold hands..........the heat..........is unbearable.
Sweat sticks like juice from overripe apricots.

At night, cold night, we lie together and feel those ghostly hands.
It wouldn't be strange to find my own hands..........around your throat
to feel you grow cold..........although I love you.

When apricot trees die, when walls lie as stones in a field, when
old friars become new ghosts, I will remain. Those who can’t see me
can’t love me or make me dread the desperation of fingers entangled,
the restraint—the stifling warmth—of devotion and idolatry. Is it the same
if it isn't the same and you are no longer with me?....................I wonder



"Corridors"

They threw me into this ruin to get rid of me
Half-sunken ceilings near, revealing dirt and debris
Cobwebs sway like curtains frayed by time and disuse
The walls are gray—or seem that way—and close as a noose
Here the hallways go on, always forking left and right
Hope of freedom from this kingdom is scant and slight
Corridors and opening doors confusing loose ends
Tilting floors and unexplored rooms defy all sense

The choices I choose seem to eschew paths of escape
Run before me, rush toward me, outlandish shapes
Their fearsome forms and silent swarms are so mutable
When they perform then they transform, they're all beautiful
With love and joy, their dance I join; we weave and we twine
Enchanting rhythm, dancing with them empties my mind
I am reborn; my life forsworn—I have been subdued
I am reborn; no more I mourn—I have been renewed
My cheeks are ruddy, feet are bloody, yet I dance on
The galleries of memories, forgotten and gone
I have always called these hallways home and do still
I have always called these hallways home, always will

The corridors and closing doors, confounding dead ends
The dusty floors and unexplored rooms keep me content
The corridors and closing doors collapse and confine
On ragged sores from jagged floors I dance out of time
The shadows shift a yielding rift I tumble into
As a shade I shuck my shape and arise anew
I have always called these hallways home and do still
I have always called these hallways home, always will​



"The Lyre"

You pluck the strings in plinking tones
....."Please," I implore you "play on."
The lyre's soft and lilting song
Lingers sublime through slow of dusk,
.....A descendent—or remnant—of dawn.

I'm floating on the fluent flow,
.....Ethereal thrum that thrills me.
Outside unsafe, inside unseen—
Quiet, secure at cusp of dusk—
.....Barricaded, blockaded—no key.

The city’s simply sitting in
.....Its streets all strewn with strangers.
We hold inside this hall in hope
Relief returns by last of dusk
.....To defend us from horrendous danger.

Perplexing plague, it plucks its own
.....Melodies meant for murder.
Your lyre lowers to faulty flats.
Corpses corrupt through dim of dusk.
.....Nothing lessens the putrescent odor.

The playful tune is plaintive now
.....Pleasant air palls to pensive.
We think on those without these walls
Who die alone by dint of dusk
.....And we withindoors restored and restive.

You strum the strings with stronger strokes—
.....Blistered and bleeding; bent forth.
Applause and praise upon your play.
We now rejoice the kiss of dusk
.....To an ultimate, culminant chord.

The song has stopped; we’ll stay no more—
.....Emboldened, door unbolted.
Rip it open. Tear it down.
Our fates fulfilled at hest of dusk:
.....With abandon we've disbanded at the end.

Fallen lyre lies forgotten.
.....You’re felled by fatal fever.
Consigned as my own soul’s consumed,
I gaze beyond
The ghosts of dusk.




Well, I've edited these as much as I can for now. The previous versions were worse, but I feel like I'm still not there with "The Lyre" because the phrasing needs work in several places.

"Sisters at a Friary" has actually turned into a series of poems about sisters. Each touches on different types of sisterly relationships (jealousy, comfort, unbreakable bonds) and different ways the sisters relate to the world. Unfortunately, most of these pairs of sisters seem to be in danger. It's probably not worth analyzing...
.

Portfolio entry information

Author
Ghost
Read time
4 min read
Views
1,188
Last update

More entries in General

More entries from Ghost

Top