"When people run in circles it's a very, very mad world. . ."
* Inspired by muddled thoughts *
* Inspired by muddled thoughts *
The black cat sits upon the dusty windowsill,
Watching the chaotic world through big brown eyes.
While far away, the lone wolf howls out for recognition,
A search for identity among the faceless pack.
The clammy hand prods a small creation,
Finally releasing it, in the belief that damage has not been done.
The butterfly settles helplessly on a battered leaf,
Repairing her trampled wings.
The black cat wanders outside into the garden,
Hoping to make sense of the jungle in cramped spaces.
While the hand drums his boney fingers on a worm-ridden desk,
Observing his companion, yet his mind on the butterfly.
The wolf attempts to break free of the chains to his routine life,
Yet falls further into the hole of confinement.
While the butterfly makes the slow journey of recovery,
And prefers to merely observe the world around her.
The black cat admires the lonely rose in the rosebush,
Transfixed with its untold beauty, transfixed with its certain smell.
Yet further away. the only smell the wolf can sense is failure,
And thus, makes a vast attempt of regaining his composure.
It is not long until the rosebush pricks the black cat,
Who flees to heal his wounded paw.
While the hand trims the rose with extra care,
Attempting to remove any defective thorns.
On his journey, the wolf finds the tiny butterfly by chance,
He immediately fuses together a friendship with this new treasure.
While the butterly remains simply greatful,
For having found a stable and safe perch to sit on.
The hand scolds the black cat for interfering with his garden,
And keeps a close watch on his favourite rose bush.
The thought of the butterfly no longer lingers in his mind,
For he has found something of greater importance to tend to.
The black cat retreats back to the windowsill,
Continuing to watch the world through lazy eyes.
Yet the wolf and the butterfly, although both further away,
Prefer to play in the falling snow.
The hand quickly loses interest in the rosebush,
Failing to tend to its every need.
The curious black cat uses this chance to investigate the unguarded bush,
And ventures out into the world once more.
History repeats itself and the cat's paw is again sore,
Seeing this, the hand rubs his fingers with glee.
Yet the wolf and the butterfly now collect snowflakes.
Together, they are invulnerable to the cold, cruel world.
Further in time, the black cat still sits upon the windowsill,
He observes the scar left on his paw.
In the distance a small figure hovers helplessly towards him,
And with great difficulty, perches itself on the other side of the window.
The cat and the butterfly seek comfort in each other,
Both bear battle scars from the war with the world.
Both have once fallen, but have later risen again,
Much like the phoenix who rises from the ashes.
The hand remains at rest, preferring his own company,
While the wolf remains alone, still searching for identity.
In contrast the cat and the butterfly venture out to the garden,
In hope of finding beauty in such small things.
The cat still observes the mysterious rosebush,
Yet keeps a safe distance to avoid harm.
However the butterfly watches with worry,
Hoping the cat will learn from past experiences.
In the end, the hand crumples like a withered Autumn leaf,
And the wolf still ventures alone, trying to find himself.
The black cat plays whimsically and innocently around the garden,
While the butterfly waits for the last of the petals to fall. . .
* Original Image is not mine *
*Image Source: http://ictenbey.deviantart.com/art/MAD-WORLD-50993763?q=boost%3Apopular+mad+world&qo=9 *
Watching the chaotic world through big brown eyes.
While far away, the lone wolf howls out for recognition,
A search for identity among the faceless pack.
The clammy hand prods a small creation,
Finally releasing it, in the belief that damage has not been done.
The butterfly settles helplessly on a battered leaf,
Repairing her trampled wings.
The black cat wanders outside into the garden,
Hoping to make sense of the jungle in cramped spaces.
While the hand drums his boney fingers on a worm-ridden desk,
Observing his companion, yet his mind on the butterfly.
The wolf attempts to break free of the chains to his routine life,
Yet falls further into the hole of confinement.
While the butterfly makes the slow journey of recovery,
And prefers to merely observe the world around her.
The black cat admires the lonely rose in the rosebush,
Transfixed with its untold beauty, transfixed with its certain smell.
Yet further away. the only smell the wolf can sense is failure,
And thus, makes a vast attempt of regaining his composure.
It is not long until the rosebush pricks the black cat,
Who flees to heal his wounded paw.
While the hand trims the rose with extra care,
Attempting to remove any defective thorns.
On his journey, the wolf finds the tiny butterfly by chance,
He immediately fuses together a friendship with this new treasure.
While the butterly remains simply greatful,
For having found a stable and safe perch to sit on.
The hand scolds the black cat for interfering with his garden,
And keeps a close watch on his favourite rose bush.
The thought of the butterfly no longer lingers in his mind,
For he has found something of greater importance to tend to.
The black cat retreats back to the windowsill,
Continuing to watch the world through lazy eyes.
Yet the wolf and the butterfly, although both further away,
Prefer to play in the falling snow.
The hand quickly loses interest in the rosebush,
Failing to tend to its every need.
The curious black cat uses this chance to investigate the unguarded bush,
And ventures out into the world once more.
History repeats itself and the cat's paw is again sore,
Seeing this, the hand rubs his fingers with glee.
Yet the wolf and the butterfly now collect snowflakes.
Together, they are invulnerable to the cold, cruel world.
Further in time, the black cat still sits upon the windowsill,
He observes the scar left on his paw.
In the distance a small figure hovers helplessly towards him,
And with great difficulty, perches itself on the other side of the window.
The cat and the butterfly seek comfort in each other,
Both bear battle scars from the war with the world.
Both have once fallen, but have later risen again,
Much like the phoenix who rises from the ashes.
The hand remains at rest, preferring his own company,
While the wolf remains alone, still searching for identity.
In contrast the cat and the butterfly venture out to the garden,
In hope of finding beauty in such small things.
The cat still observes the mysterious rosebush,
Yet keeps a safe distance to avoid harm.
However the butterfly watches with worry,
Hoping the cat will learn from past experiences.
In the end, the hand crumples like a withered Autumn leaf,
And the wolf still ventures alone, trying to find himself.
The black cat plays whimsically and innocently around the garden,
While the butterfly waits for the last of the petals to fall. . .
* Original Image is not mine *
*Image Source: http://ictenbey.deviantart.com/art/MAD-WORLD-50993763?q=boost%3Apopular+mad+world&qo=9 *
The ambiguity to this piece draws many questions we try to answer in day to day life. There is also a "Noir" effect, giving mystery to all of the characters. I love this "Hand figure" concept watching over a rosebush. The rose, yet beautiful and innocent have the defensive thorns attached to it, and more to defend it is this "Hand." This hand though is faceless, leaving it limited to what it can do.
ReplyDeleteYour piece takes us through an emotional journey, showing us the difficulties between people, and the happiness in the small things.
Enigmatic collection of personas wandering this world - 2 furry ones (wild and domesticated, wings (wild) and the hand (domesticated) threading a fragile web of sense through this poetic wonderland. And the hand seems to have a few personas up the sleeve too! A delightful piece of writing!
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