Poetry is not a turning loose of emotion, but an escape from emotion; it is not the expression of personality, but an escape from personality.“
— T.S. Eliot
A wistful poetess walked in tireless shoes,
She’s drifting in the dark along with light,
In colourless worlds of soft and rhythmical blues,
Too weary of people to put up a fight.
She’s lighting blazing fires throughout the night,
And feeling warm, she sees the sparks and smiles
At a vengeful moon of desired sleight,
While she walked a million miles.
At times abandoned by her secret muse,
She focused on finding him with all of her might,
Lost, she roamed the stars, seeking for clues,
Swallowed by shadows when the moon was bright,
Escaping rustling whispers, naming her Clite,
Alone like the bird she loved to call Skiles,
Found a year ago, her graceful twite,
While she walked a million miles.
Obscured by shiny hair a tiny bruise,
Expected justice from a gracious knight.
The poetess watched the stars slowly fuse,
Longing and waiting, dressed in dirty white,
Unspoken words that bled, she failed to write.
Consumed by cunning poems and their subtle wiles,
She burned them all, no longer holding them tight,
While she walked a million miles.
Oh, Poetess, make your way to the magical bight,
There, your muse is hidden in chaotic aisles,
And the poem you seek has always been in sight:
“While She Walked a Million Miles”.
I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope,
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing.
— T. S. Eliot
Thank you Tom Conley for helping me with my messy meter :)