Friday, August 28, 2015

My word, my age, my cage


My word, my age, my cage,
I in my singing make a grand life of it.

My dream, my breeze, my wings,
Not one note would I strike from it.

My change, my pain, my breast,
I in my night paint light of it.

My rest, my grace, my end,
I of my death find no strife in it.

My love, my blessed, my friend,
I in glad rage take delight in it.



6 comments:

Jan said...

Sad and beautiful, in the way I read it.
Trapped in an aging body.
Limited in what one could do.
Then death and a release of one's soul.
To finally soar and fly free without pain.

I may be wrong, William...but I am never afraid to share my thoughts with you, my friend~

William Michaelian said...

I am always grateful for that, Jan. No right, no wrong. Just thanks.

Mr. Allen said...

The brief simplicity is what makes this poem.

It reminds me of a quote from Florence Foster Jenkins--the worlds worst opera singer--"People may say I can't sing, but no on can ever say I didn't sing."

William Michaelian said...

Beautiful. I love it. Nice to hear from you again.

Joseph Hutchison said...

Oh, my friend, Blake himself would sit down in the shadow of your beard and sing a shining tune. Lovely!

William Michaelian said...

Kind words — thank you, Joe.