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Oxymoron
Posted: 10 November 2003
Word Count: 54
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My face
Belies
So many
Lives
Lived.
My eyes
Redirect
Inquisitive glances
Of
Homeric
Tears
Shed.
My clothes
Disguise
The livid
Scars
Of inescapable
Encounters.
Querying
My being
Is futile.
I am an
Anachronistic diversion
Subject to derision.
And where I find
My strength
Is a mystery.
The rest
I gladly
Consign
To history.
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Comments by other Members
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 Fearless at 20:41 on 10 November 2003
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This is you, but could be so, so many others.
It could be Captain Cat from 'Under Milk Wood', it could be the oldest tree in Kew Gardens, it could be me.
I love the description, painting in my minds eye the journey travelled.
Nice lyric matey boy. Wish I could write like that (also wish I had more hair, but anyway.....)
Fearless
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The Walrus at 20:50 on 10 November 2003
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Come, come Fearless, modesty is so passe (I may have said this before). I can only dream of writing with your diversity, audacity, verve and unwavering sensitivity.
The Walrus
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Fearless at 20:57 on 10 November 2003
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I wish I wrote like that
F
<Added>
But please take the compliment on your writing. It's very fine. X
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roovacrag at 22:10 on 10 November 2003
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Scars come from life, living it to the full.You have to have lived and suffered pain. Not be cocooned in a silky case. xx Al
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Bobo at 08:51 on 11 November 2003
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Life leaves its marks - sometimes it feels as though this is all we have to show for all we've experienced and endured, but that is never truly the case.
Lovely words Ms W.
BoBo x
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The Walrus at 09:08 on 11 November 2003
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Alice, Bobo, I thank you. Your words are true. Never been one for cocooning.
Your comments reminded me of a poem 'given' to me by a very dear friend many years ago when I was sinking into darkness. It saved me then, made me remember who I was and still remains very close to my heart:
Invictus
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the Pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll.
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.
William Ernest Henley
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