My dignity tacked up on a wall
like some ancient weaponry
of a long-forgotten battle
The museum curator
(for posterity)
dusts off my soul
held inside a shoddy display case
I will only know this wall,
his calloused grip,
and strangers' eyes.
I will never again know
the elevation of victory,
the spoils of war,
the inside of you.
13 comments:
It sounds very sad.
If it's the weaponry alone then I I am glad.
The metaphor is so final, so hopeless.
Oh I like that you became the prompt and a really interesting take on it!
I like the idea of a soul museum; broken love and shimmering, undying dreams hung in row on dusty row like old tabards and swords and the occasional helmeted bust...
Cool poem, Templeton. Thanks for it.
Peter G.
A totally different perspective on what's hanging on that wall ... nicely done!
This is a powerful one Templeton....I am so glad you are back....we have missed you! :-)
really really like this, nicely written.
Fun poem - dynamic!
Really, really like this too!
Anna :o]
You sure found an unusual viewpoint! :)
A nice idea, and I liked the potentially gory last line.
masterful writing..
captivating!
Love the symbolism here. Nice.
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