The Spoon
The spoon sits upon a cold steel pile,
the dark walls of containment,
as if drawing nearer in the small dank space,
feel like the end of all aspiration,
while outside the clatter of movement and life
echo what holds this cell of purgatory
in expectation.
When the light comes in blaring radiance,
and taken is another helpless soul,
the world shudders in the closing,
and those dark walls encroach on body and mind,
the seal once again delivered,
as if a sentence, a term of still restraint,
while hope again is dashed.
Then one summer’s day,
after the cold and torturous months,
the light comes and a warm hand makes a choice,
and through the air into a vast open light-filled room,
I fly weightless, guided to a table;
monetarily at rest I hear those voices and movements
once dulled by those walls, now in clear and bright eternity.
A heart soars with anticipation,
freed from dulled dark life into a world of open possibility,
and as I am held and dipped into a pond of white,
I hear a crunching of joyous delight,
and children laugh, and happiness fills my heart,
as I, a simple spoon find purpose,
and I am savored and stroked with a gentle reverence.
Finally I have found peace.
Tony DeLorger © 2016
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Very creative and motivation for deep thinking. I love this poem, Tony. Kind of relates to my life. LOL Very well done, dear poet.
Too kind Phyllis. Glad you liked it; its a creative writing exercise that’s fun to do now and then. It stirs up those creative juices. Take care.