The Poetry Corner
Welcome to the poetry corner! Be the first to read new poems before they are out in print and some that you will never see in print. Check back often to see what's new. Also, don't forget to check out the poetry archives to view previously featured poems.
Late at night when the world is still,
Into this world shadows will spill.
Shadows cast without aid of light,
Often escape our busy sight.
But, by quieting our minds to a degree,
Sometimes we will be able to see.
From the corner of our eye they transform,
From a shadow to their past human form.
Sometimes it may be someone we know,
Standing alight, in a pure white glow,
Sometimes it's a stranger who comes to call,
Someone familiar with these hallowed halls.
Their full form you will never see,
For they can hide in obscurity.
Again into the shadows they quickly drift,
From our sight into a timeless rift.
Disappearing into the tweens,
A place where heaven and earth convenes.
As the universe contracts and expands,
So too do the shadowlands.
Redemption is something often perceived,
As something elusive and rarely achieved.
For those who wrong we are often driven,
To make sure they remain the unforgiven.
But what of those wronged by another,
Why must the guilt seem to smother?
We think, deep inside, it's somehow our fault,
That somehow we deserve their assault.
Mistakenly turning around the blame,
Becoming stuck within the shame.
From ourselves we try to hide,
Looking for answers from outside.
Looking to others to make us whole,
But the pain inside they cannot console.
Feeling alone and empty inside,
Burying deeper what we cannot abide.
Until we are ready to face the pain,
A sense of peace we cannot attain.
Guaranteed, without exemption,
We all must find our own redemption.
From many I've heard say,
Life is just a game to play.
During the game we all know,
Your whole hand you never show.
That which we choose to hide,
We keep closely by our side.
Depending on the current task,
We all put on a certain mask.
But does the game ever end?
Do the rules ever bend?
Are there those that we let in?
With whom we can be genuine?
Or has the mask become a regime,
Forcing others to the outer extreme?
For in what pleasure could we bask,
If we always wear a mask?
For some because a mask is new,
Opaqueness lets you see right through.
For those who have learned the trick,
After much betrayal it becomes quite thick.
Whether they're color, or black and white,
Their mystery always seems to invite.
But would one ever dare to ask,
Are you for real? Or just a mask?