:: Closing Time ::

:: Monday, March 10, 2003 ::

I wrote this a long time ago. Junior year, to be precise. Confident in the fact that Ms. Frick would never, ever figure out what it meant. I was quite right.

I'm curious if any of you can. Well. That is, interpret it as I wrote it. I think the only thing I ever DID agree completely with her is that the beauty of poetry is that no interpretation can be right... one may be authorically intended, but poetry is what you take away from it.

Displaced

To those who ask of futile questions why,
I bid of thee, oh please do not be sore.
Because the children may lash out and cry
We must always be ready for the war.
The children thought to be of pain and strife
Are not in truth of ancient Horsemen born
But rather of our precious human life
From innocence their evils have been torn.
Though once thought love this pain has now been shown
To lie within the blackened fate we seize
With every moment greater suff'ring known
One greater burden brings us to our knees.
Never a moment free, we're always chased
We're strangled by life's fist, we are Displaced.
:: Peter 2:18 AM [+] ::
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