literature

When History Unwrites

Deviation Actions

DSteffi's avatar
By
Published:
516 Views

Literature Text

Seated upon a dank white wall,
No gold or diamond ornates its throne.
Staring all day at the same blank space,
Worlds apart from where it was first brought forth.

Strangers come and delight in awe,
Like loyal subjects frozen in place.
But while given the praise befitting a king,
Its thoughts are those of a peasant ignored.

For before it was priced with things of limit,
And carefully passed from hand to hand.
It was no more than its own cold throne,
Soiled and battered and worth no coin.

Its royalty was the dust of a room,
Spectators were but a passing mouse.
Back when glory meant a thin ray of light,
And the loveliest tune the patters of rain.

But as days passed in the forgotten room,
The corners screamed and not of hope.
An invisible clock ticked and tocked,
Prolonging an end to a story with none.

Pages flipped like a book that’s hollow,
Reality turned into a big cruel joke.
One wish was voiced for every night,
All curtains closed on this lonely plight.

But as the play lived on an empty script,
Ink was smeared by ghostly lips.
Tranquil chaos gave birth to a farce,
Igniting a place in history’s fire.

So it began with the creak of a door,
A dancing flame upon a shaky grasp.
Louder and closer the sound of steps,
Halting abruptly before our paper friend.

Thus with the breeze of one warm breath,
The dark dust of life scattered elsewhere.
And with the glimpse of an old dying rose,
There it was, longed for hope.

Pulled from the shelf it knew so well,
In a muffled soft whisper there it came.
A longing happy voice bidding goodbye,
To a home and a coffin it could have been.

Though shriveled in specks of hardened dust,
It laid a masterpiece of Olympus’ touch.
And thus they stroked, the pen and brush,
Narrating the tale of an artist too sad.

And when at last our battered old pauper,
Emerged as the king revered so highly,
The man that gave his crown so grand,
Left without a word, a smile or a frown.

What took over this good quiet friend?
Did all this time mean anything at all?
Why oh why did he simply just go,
Without a final look or a bid farewell?

But just as it had in that dark old cellar,
It waited and waited and waited again.
The sun and the rain in glorious blending,
Tuned it alive and not quite lonely.

And as the nights came and as the nights went,
Time beating time became too much to bear.
Sinking back to the days it once lived,
It surrendered its soul to the hands of grim.

Waking to the sky of a soft peach dawn,
Expecting nothing of extraordinaire.
So hearing the sound of a creaking door,
Was thought of the mind playing its film.

And yet unlike a following ghost,
Steps were heard and just as real.
This withering house the forest hid,
Gave its memory, the final one.

The rest that came were flying blurs,
A discovery made with the taste of legend.
Everybody wondered of the great mystery,
Left to the earth by an unknown name.

So brings us to this the modern day,
Where all is curious and unsettled still.
But though all those studies are left uncertain,
Its beauty and essence are indeed for sure.

And thus in that silent parting moment,
A chapter ended and another began.
And up to this day his majesty awaits,
When at last goodbye replaces hello.
When our sights fall upon a work of art, when our eyes read a tale or a poem, we each get our own understanding and interpretation of the piece. But behind every drawing, painting, sculpture and word, the artist has woven his/her very own soul. Emotions materialise and are brought to life. Every one of our pieces holds us in them.

And I think that is what bonds us to all of our work.

Thank you for reading, compliments and criticisms are highly welcomed. :)
Comments3
Join the community to add your comment. Already a deviant? Log In
Rocksaresupahcool's avatar
Impressive, you keep good flow for relative to the length of the work and you cleverly word your message. It's subtle and tasteful, this was a pleasant surprise over a lot of the stuff I junk in my inbox everyday. My only suggestion would be to not talk about the poem in your description box. Stating your idea outright kinda defeats the purpose of the poem.