A unique poem about a dream I often have about faith and judgement of my own creation |
-The Dove Is No Creature- by Keaton Foster Whisper close Quiet most Nothing true Lies invade This mind Telling tales Waking me up Fearing myself Above all else I cannot sleep Exhaustion is real Everything else Increasingly fake In a field of none In my dream of less Stands a solemn tree Crooked, it may be Tortured and twisted It does indeed seem In perpetuity Always will it be Upon a branch Midway up Sits a dove White Pristine Precise Is such plumage Perfect Is such a shape Flawlessly living Perilously existing Every darkness Resides within its eyes Blackened jewels In my tedious world Of many absolutes It makes no sound There it just sits Watching all of this Waiting judgement To be spent Higher still There is another creature Ghastly it’s features No animal known But be certain It is a beast grown Beyond control Beyond role There it waits For a mistake A falter of being In my mind Through my spine The whitest of dove Has become God In my heart Through my gut The other creature Not quite known Is all that God Is not In this dream In my mind Not bound Either says a thing Either acknowledges Any other They just sit there So clear Looking out Into forever’s bosom Seeing me And my misdeeds One holds account The other harbors A grudge Both seek meaning Both embrace reason All here All created Understand In a field Of None In a dream Of less Stands A tree Each branch Bent The trunk Scarred The roots Run quite deep All around Close And as far As can be Is nothing So it does seem Darkness Upon blackness Mired as one The dove of white Pure in truth It’s eyes Emptiness devised The darkest of pools Swirling loose Calling me close Drawing me in Making me relent The other creature Ghastly such features It knows Understand all Omits nothing Judgment All and both Created by me Upon the ground There I be There I remain Looking up Wondering As I must Why are both there What do they mean This dream comes Each night Invading my sleep Waking me up With a scream Leaving me pacing Facing What is not known With what has been created This mind, a prison Such Ideas, an affliction Thus The night will come The dream will remain What could it mean What will happen I don’t know How could I And that Above all else Troubles me most… Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2008-2018 |