The Perfect Place

I wrote the bulk following poem in the space of about 20 minutes. I didn’t consciously think about what I was writing until the last lines. When I saw what the poem appeared to be about, I added two stanzas to the beginning and cleaned up the rest. In total, writing this poem took me less than an hour.

I find the poem to be more than a little disturbing in that writing it had the quality of a dream that I had little conscious control over. The Princess and I spent more than an hour analyzing it for meaning. It is complex, and says a lot about the kind of stuff that my subconscious seems to be wrestling with. It seems to say that my subconscious needs some fresh air, a bit of coddling, perhaps a game of darts, and at least a week's vacation away from my conscious self to pull itself together.



The Perfect Place

Alone and shy, I hid and watched,
the world as it went by.
And I prayed with all my fervent hope
for a more perfect world for I.

The gods of life did nudge and laugh
as they listened to my pleas.
And with a wink, the world I knew
fell crashing to my knees.

I watched the world, with silenced sound
as it crumbled ‘bout my feet.
People screamed and died, and the gods of life
killed them with flaming heat.

A rock, a gun, two spools of thread
fell in the silent din.
And a single soul, with outstretched hands
reached out to take them in.

“What useless things!” I cried aghast
trapped ‘neith a crumpled wall.
“Why did the gods give these to us,
while all our world does fall?”

A young man, wise beyond his years,
paused to look at me.
His eyes were sad to see my plight
but worked not to set me free.

“Useless? No. These things that fell
are more useful than they seem.
With them, I will rebuild the world
and make it better than you dream.

“The rock? It builds, and breaks apart.
The gun? It doth defend.
And the spools of thread? What use have they
than to bind the world and mend.”

And thus it fell, the world I knew.
And ‘neith the wall lay I.
And the man did use that single rock
to break apart the sky.

And surviving men crawled to the man
with open burns that bled.
The man just smiled, and with saddened eyes,
he shot them in the head.

And then he took the broken shards
of sky that lay about
and with the thread did bind them back
and mended, he cast them out.

And the sky did sparkle, with life anew
and all the dust was gone.
And there I stood, in golden robes
as the bright new world did dawn.

“Here it is, your perfect world,”
And he tossed to me the stone.
“Here you’ll never want for food or drink.
and you’ll ever be alone.”

My mouth agape, he took the gun
and he blew himself away.
and I fell and knelt upon the grass
that first perfect, lonesome day.