poetry

The heavy shade suffocates the morning
As I wonder out, from my lavish cradle,
Having only the finest cloth, grace
My pampered skin,
Consumed, in my possessions,
As I blur out the rest of the world,
From my glass house,
Original paintings kept in a closed room
Just to brag, of my ownership,
I surround myself with these marvels
And made famous by them,
I have it all, yet nothing still,
Only I sat unaware, until a crash
Upon the vacant canvas perched above, Sending down a reckoning in it’s storm,
And when all had cleared, my glass house
Stood high, and intact of my possessions,
Then came a slight tapping
Of tiny stones, scratching my home,
A lost boy, amongst the wreckage,
I come out in a stampeding rage
As another stone, leaves his hand
Shattering a pane of my possession,
When I turn back, to release my fury,
There’s no boy, vanished into the fog,
Sweeping, echoes the destruction
Laid upon by a nuisance,
Until he reappears, lightly tapping
On my fragile door,
I slowly march over, with red burning
In my eyes, yet the boy waits,
He doesn’t speak, no apology for chaos
But a piece of parchment, handed to me,

“No stone has less value than the idols
You carry in your heart, weighing you down. ”

When I finish reading, the boy is gone,
Vanished into the nothingness
From which, he came,
Later that night, another storm
Beckons beyond the range,
Flashing, lighting up the entire canvas,
This storm, brews more fierce than any
My possessions can withstand,
I begin to pack, wrap and move my gems
To a safer hold, but it’s too much,
The bellowing wind brings warning
With the storm, right behind it,
Smashing against my home,
Shattering more than what the stone did,
Waves of monumental hight, pounds
Against the inside walls, tearing apart
My woven cloths and sheets,
Lighting from Olympus blasts through
The shields of the dark closest,
Burning the scenes, I forgot about,
All the while, I’m here
Watching from striking distance, 
Who was that snotty little boy
That stole my life away,
It was him, that brought forth Poseidon’s
Cruel and unusual punishment,
For all I did was live within a museum
Of fortune, inside a glass house
For all to see,
Until all, is but a common phrase
Shouted out,
But I threw no stone, rock or boulder,
I kept sacred, all that made me
An island of buried treasure,
Only to have it lost to the sea,
Now, there is only me,
I once had a life, blink,
And you would have missed it,
It was filled with outrageous fortune
But, that all vanishes, I squandered
Away my years, idolizing materials,
Things that would not hold me,
Things that would not make me feel,
Things that would never stop me
From vanishing, long before I realized.

©DorianPoe 2016