poem about defeat



I stand atop this barren hill
as a calm wind blows through my skin,
wrapping tightly around each bone of my skeleton
like the tension of a silk ribbon in the soft hands of child folk
right as they take their last step of running around a Maypole,
no length left to pull
and they stand still.

I stand atop this barren hill,
this heap of pain and rust
from ashes of the past that have settled
and the constant shaking foundation that caved in.
Stillness and quiet trump the sound of defeated sin.
The wind has stopped,
and the tension dropped from my bones
like the ribbons unspun from the Maypole
in a flurry of delicate colors,
and there is, finally,

Nothing more ties me to the past,
once woven into my within by silken strands,
cut loose by a flourish from the razor of Intellect,
now waving its white flag of surrender,
an outcast.


more by A. M. LAINE

photograph by Jake Melara


Image Curve’s Manifesto


You may also like...

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *