Post by Sophronia on Apr 10, 2006 22:30:43 GMT -5
I actually wrote this on the spot...it isn't really a poetry piece, it's more a prose writing piece, but we don't have a section for that, so here it is...
Always Too Late
By Sophronia
What blind light passes through the mirrors to the soul, these blind eyes that cannot see? We know not of how the darkness lives, shrouded inside itself, we see not what we have no care for, we see only the outside image, the frame of a DaVinci painting. We hear not the truth and sincerity portrayed in her silent cries for help, nor the pleading tears or forgotten screams. We are fools, feeling not the pain in the vocals of the lesser known as she claws at the cage that locks her out of her own life...and she never finds the key. We have the key, and this child teeters on the precious scale of life and death. She screams once more, asking for our help, begging for us to save her. But the darkness closes in, and we hear nothing. The darkness screams louder than the girl's frail voice, drowning out the hysterical sobs. But as this girl falls off the edge, she lets out a cry of pain...and we hear it. The last thing we feel are the teardrops...or the drops of blood. The light has faded, and we cannot see ahead or behind. We are stuck in the present, soaked with the guilt and the pain the girl has left behind. We feel that we could have saved this innocent being, this child...if we had only paid her the attention all people deserve. But it is too late. Too late...too late...
Always Too Late
By Sophronia
What blind light passes through the mirrors to the soul, these blind eyes that cannot see? We know not of how the darkness lives, shrouded inside itself, we see not what we have no care for, we see only the outside image, the frame of a DaVinci painting. We hear not the truth and sincerity portrayed in her silent cries for help, nor the pleading tears or forgotten screams. We are fools, feeling not the pain in the vocals of the lesser known as she claws at the cage that locks her out of her own life...and she never finds the key. We have the key, and this child teeters on the precious scale of life and death. She screams once more, asking for our help, begging for us to save her. But the darkness closes in, and we hear nothing. The darkness screams louder than the girl's frail voice, drowning out the hysterical sobs. But as this girl falls off the edge, she lets out a cry of pain...and we hear it. The last thing we feel are the teardrops...or the drops of blood. The light has faded, and we cannot see ahead or behind. We are stuck in the present, soaked with the guilt and the pain the girl has left behind. We feel that we could have saved this innocent being, this child...if we had only paid her the attention all people deserve. But it is too late. Too late...too late...
