Here I stand silently

flushed and tearful-

in my broken pride,

like a storm-cloud,

laden with rain and

charged with lightning,

lowering over the horizon...

Why was I so proudly confident

that one day you would be mine-

and that you would have me in confidence?

What stood in our way?

Nothing perhaps,

It was all a tangle

of a multitude of things-

nothing definitely palpable...

Perhaps I am a mystery to my own mind.

If once the whole of myself should know me,

I would then fling it all away,

and reach beatitude !

or perhaps forget my lost, false pride...

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Everyman is a poet in himself. When the world goes from right to wrong and memories attack like foxes pouncing upon helpless lambs. The heart awakes from a false dream to endure reality. Something breaks...Pride.

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Anna Gordon's picture

great use of metaphor