“A wounded deer leaps
highest,”
I crave it would be
so,
For the gushes, twinges,
and aches,
Pouring still and re-surging...
But so I heard:
“Mirth is mail of
anguish,
In which its cautious
arm
Lest anybody spy the
blood...”
Perhaps,
it is mere illusion,
To muddle trough the
agony of lesions..
Or perhaps, it’s the
gift of the absent gods,
To just the unjustly
wiles...
I care to define no
more...
Since I would leap
highly and mightily
Not for the wound,
gushes, and aches..
But for the space,
stars, and pulsars...
12 May 2014
My past self is a romantic version of a wounded woman, armed with an energy to proof herself worthy, all because she avoided to become a victim again.
Reflected upon it, I feel a bit defeated.. well not fully defeated, but can't help the feeling of weariness.. Because I am not holding to the same level energy of vengeance anymore. I am now lack of the initial reason to soar..
Call it maturity, or wisdom to embrace reality as it is, or just a loser try to picking up whats left of her self esteem; but the truth is life tend to make you less romantic and idyllic. The more encounter with disappointments in life, the more you are to reduce an ideal view of the world.
Yeah.. I'm not mad or anything.. I just like the image I obtain from this poem... a beautiful defeat :)
