A little slice of modern day angst channeled through William Blake |
Paper Tygers Origami tygers teem, such jungles, cardboard, flat In my head, my demons scheme, conspire, with their chat Circling round fires, folds, I fumble without fail Rings of flame, invite the bold … to seize the tyger's tail with tales caught, alluring, intimidating games, with memories enduring … I've just myself to blame Bogged down in such ardour, drawn from way back in the day, but simple things seem harder... torn … the hardest things to say with signals mixed, I've sent her, out, received, confusion shared Blown chances, left, right, centre... doubt … were they ever really there? Grounded, clipped, I call her name, wings weathered down with tar, and though the room seems smaller, tame the distance seems so far A distance hard to fathom, grasp, even at arms reach, such frailties, held tightly, clasped … what lessons do they teach? with tygers, craft of paper, folds, so playful in their pride, seen and viewed for later, bold, so hard to get inside So inviting... so unwelcome, so intricate the folds What damaged goods we sell them, plated rich with our best gold, In neon light, it scatters, swells … at rationale's expense and when it doesn't matter... well, that's when it all makes sense A sense of not belonging here, despite feeling at home A bright night, vibrant, longing, near … something of my own Left slave to folding forces, tygers, primal, roam their space, but wishes?... they're not horses! … and the beggars know their place Alone on the savannah, neither hunter nor the prey Laid prone, they'll never have her, despite the best of plays with plans so good on paper, and stars that won't align, as cats prance, dance, and caper … I just wish that she were mine Curled up happy, closer, instead of over there I guess I just need closure … let the fire meet some air Flames that you just can't ignore, depression, doubt, desire Wanting less, yet needing more … the tyger lights with fire A folded beast, a hard backed spine, a puzzle to work out, with paperbacks, such hunters pine, bound up in self doubt as origami tygers gleam, we try to work the folds, in cardboard jungles, poets dream, flames climb... and passions hold |