When the ice melts
And the forests burn And the earth flattens And the story turns - I will say my farewell in a metaphor. A gentle one, Of the sweetest kind Wrapped in a blanket The type children never leave behind A metaphor that would get passed around for generations. That would include all kinds of explanations. Like an allegory, or a poem for the ages About the death of mankind And the children in cages. Consumerism has played a part, So did ego and its greed There were also purists among the herd But they were not the ones to lead. No, mankind likes its stars shiny and high up above Separate from the earth and oozing with self-love But what do I know, now, or when it all ends I am no better than the sum of all my friends And fuck it - they are no angels in this hell of ours Nor are they devils in this dirty paradise. We're a bunch of old tales in modern silhouettes But with every passing moment we forget: Forget we are nothing in the scope of things So why bother chasing our silly hopes and dreams? When will we tend to what matters most - Our Amazon forests and our rolling hills and coasts And of course - tend to the home within Which is a metaphor for the home outside our skin The door to the other and the window to the soul And for fuck sake people - stop talking about COAL Hug your mother and your mother earth Ha! there's a metaphor for your glorified rebirth. Roses are red and they're a dying breed too And so are US, my friend, so are me and you. I've reached the end of the page and my rhymes took hold I am no perfect I know, but have a heart of gold That was a metaphor too, the kind you already know And when I bid farewell my metaphor will grow Like roots of a tree it will expand With branches it will embrace this entire land Or it will be forgotten like the best of words Or perhaps it one day will be sung by birds A tale of humans and their blind chase To look beyond for some empty space And miss out on earth in all her glory Never seeing the broad daylight hidden allegory Poems are here to point us in a direction Or maybe they are meant to tint us with connection Connection to something greater than the self Or perhaps they're meant to stay on the bookshelf Until a child years from now will pull them down And draw a face on the cover, of perhaps a clown A heart, a star, a home With a crayon - the child will make her own poem She won't need words to cloud her stride The child is already open and wide eyed All us humans can do is hope for her to lead And perhaps then nature's words of wisdom will finally be freed. ***
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AuthorIn April 2020, while experiencing her first ever global pandemic, Tamar Pelzig pledged to write something every day, even if it's only a word, so she welcomed to the world a daily blog to keep her creative writing wheels rolling. Categories
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Header Art: Daniel Landerman |