The Smell of Thought

I wanted to hope for a gift
Something set free from a cage with wings
And desperately, I hoped to gain
Something that would free me too

But I could not be freed
Until I could learn to give
And though I hated the inscrutable wind
I tried to scream my whispered warning

To it as I longed for pale sunsets
And words that would give me
Some sort of wish
That would give me hope

But hope is a quality quickly fleeting
And though I loathed the smell
Of thought, I thought
And thought of things

That no mortal should ever think of
No mere man should ever write of
But I did, because the cage demanded
Escape, and escape was of the outside world

And the outside world held disgust
And I wanted to understand that disgust
And find a way to make it beautiful
For it was not wrong to write

About wrong, because for wrong to be
Right must be, for hate to be,
Love must triumph. And I made
It triumph in every thought

And though I loathed the smell of
Blood, I thought of blood and water
And how the sky would pour forth stars
And damage the unsuspecting earth below

And I wondered how long it would be
Before another thinker would enter and
Think the dark and troubled thoughts I thought
But none would come for they feared

That light would never be back.
Except for one, and that was of
Another time, another year, moment
And dimension, and I longed

For another thought, a thought of joy
And a thought that would remove this
Elephant from my chest and
Let my heart beat freely again

It did not come and I drowned.
Darkness is not unlike water and water
Makes one drown when it is all around
And suddenly, light and darkness

Made their solemn dance around me
Like a wedding march, marrying themselves together
I screamed.
Because I was drowned and I

Could not see or breathe…
But it was not the end.
Light and dark are two means
To kill and to birth

And to embrace the light from
The side of the dark
As a great illumination watches
Is to find a joy that cannot be found

To fight an enemy that cannot be killed
To find a way that does not exist
To eat from the hand that made you
To know a God who cannot be known.

I keep writing poetry. Once again, I'm trying to improve my contest entry, and this one isn't even the right form, so I decided to post it. Poetry is a raw art and is a language of thought, best understood when overheard, I've decided.This one was just expression of something I can't understand. But I'm trying. Echoes in ink, C.