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  Poetry, and discussions of it, have a long history. Early attempts to define poetry, such as Aristotle's Poetics, focused on the uses of speech in rhetoric, drama, song and comedy. Later attempts concentrated on features such as repetition and rhyme, and emphasised the aesthetics which distinguish poetry from prose. From the mid-20th century, poetry has sometimes been more loosely defined as a fundamental creative act using language. Poetry often uses particular forms and conventions to expand the literal meaning of the words, or to evoke emotional or sensual responses. Devices such as assonance, alliteration, onomatopoeia and rhythm are sometimes used to achieve musical or incantatory effects. Poetry's use of ambiguity, symbolism, irony and other stylistic elements of poetic diction often leaves a poem open to multiple interpretations. Similarly, metaphor and simile create a resonance between otherwise disparate images—a layering of meanings, forming connections previously not perceived. Kindred forms of resonance may exist, between individual verses, in their patterns of rhyme or rhythm.

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Trace of a Tear


The road ahead went on for miles,
paved with shards of shattered stone,
the trek was pained  by foolish guiles.
Judgemental eyes observed this path;
burning like coals upon his back,
stripping his spirit to an essence  bare;
as he felt their stares through the murky black,
their jagged nails brushing by,
their rustle in the breeze that blew  back his hair.
Within oblivion he walked this way,
through and through his heart's deceit,
a barren forest where only darkness  lay.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.

With his bloody footprints left to fade;
where ghosts of perpetual folly  played,
he recalled that singular day of past,
and longed to relive the choice he made.
It came and went so long ago,
the  fool's attempt once gone awry;
as he heard each drop as they alit below,
felled by the brambles that tore each  lie.
Without complaint he followed on,
led by will to a destined fate;
as eventually the bleeding slowly ceased,
and all was  scarred as labels state.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.


He patiently proceeded through the ravaged wood;
where  twisted forms like sentries stood,
there was no light by which to see,
and still he tread as best he could.
He had entered the brier  dazed with shock,
passed amid petals long dry and dead,
gone through thorns which opened him up,
and still he sought to reach the end.  
With the last of his strength he lunged ahead,
the battered soul's wistful hope.
The heat of his blood had shaken the beast,
and  in death it fell as the life he led.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.

He slowly awoke upon the ground he lay.
With  differing perceptions he arose anew;
to continue his journey in disarray.
Before sneering wraiths he found himself,
their  jeers still fresh in memory,
but they were merely shades upon the horizon,
or another page in the endless story.
Along with the  Fall's insistent beckon,
a tiny flame had caught within,
sparked as though by a delicate song,
or the autumn  leaves;
of a forgotten emotion thought to be gone.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.


He shed the cloak with a final  shrug,
beholding his faults with new regard.
Faintly he saw each step ahead,
as a flower of fire dispelled the dark.  
It burned atop an unseen rise,
a flickering guide by which he went.
He felt his soul no longer lost,
and discovered  purpose;
discounting loss.
Feeling pierced his heart at last;
with numbness's defeat,
discarding the remnants of  sorrows past.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.

The flames impressed with every step,
their dancing figures toward the  heavens leapt;
as she awaited there,
her breathtaking beauty aglow silhouetted.
He experienced his earlier  hesitation,
in fear of offense for his damnation,
but wanting to live,
and without the burden of reputation.
Still she awaited,
her  silence tender in the brisk night;
as one complete,
for eternal was she in the firelight.

Of this much,
he was aware at  least.


She quietly spoke his name then,
not more than a whisper,
but sweet enough to make covetous seraphim.
Upon his  knees he fell before her,
unable to express the pangs he felt,
but needing to do so,
alit by the fire by which he knelt.
He  couldn't bare to look away;
from the forested depths within her eyes,
as tremulous starlight drifted down,
the bud of a dream;  
too long in denial steeped inside.

Of this much,
he was aware at least.

He had been taken to her by the path he chose;  
completely unwitting,
as a raindrop falls to the heart of a rose.
Still he could not look away;
as she stood in the shooting  stars light above.
He no longer denied the obvious truth,
and in a trembling voice;
declared his love.
Thunder rumbled  somewhere in the distance,
but the warmth of the fire was proven true,
as he let himself fall asleep;
in the embrace of the angel  that loved him too.

Of this much,
I'm aware at least.

(Poem completed: Monday September  14, 1998)

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Poetry written by: Bryan Garaventa; all rights reserved. No unauthorized reproduction or distribution is permitted without prior consent. If you would like permission for either of these purposes, or for any other reason, please click here to inquire further.

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