The Portrait of the Artist as a Never Ending Series of Name-puns (a poem) | {story#16}

This is an original fiction piece written for StoryADay September. Read more & follow here.

She stands alone,
lost in a process she only knows;
the reflection staring back in silent contemplation
of a piece going “God knows where”.

The streets lie lifeless in her eyes;
those eyes hidden by a façade of powder and colour,
yet somehow come through.

The mousy bed face wins again.

It wins the hearts of those around her,
a victory bitter in her mouth as unintentioned
as the betrayal of a love

far less worthy than she.

A treasure to behold,
lost in the circles that bind her.
Unaware of the weary travelers,
knocking at her door.

What reason? What allure?
Presumption guiding every step,
obsession ceasing pleasant passion
as strangers ask for more.

Imitation sincerest form: Find the part, feel the skin.
The skin of scalp under fingers raw
from scratching doors leading to air?
Maybe this time?

To freedom.

Freedom from pain, freedom from drama;
just twist the lone lock of Irish breed once more
between the fingers and

Sleep well this night and rest thy head,
let not the demons haunt thy muse,
as musings cascade down rivers gold
in dreams,
of a love:
due praise, and
worth honor.

A love Love’s loathing has kept you from knowing
this, these nineteen years gone past.
“A hope deferred makes the heart sick”;
indeed it ever has, but
“a hope that is seen is not hope at all,
for who hopes for what she sees?”

“A desire fulfilled is a tree of life.”

I hope beside you this still dark night
that you find
that which you’ve been made to have
but have had not ever still.

That you settle not for swine
as you are the pearl that is cast:
the pearl unknowing and unawares, of that which
thrusts her out of the sea and into the arms

of He.

your Love.


Creative Commons License
This work by Paul Burkhart is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.

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