For class I had to write a poem that treated “an artifact of dubious cultural derivation” in a serious or sacrosanct way. I figured, if there’s any poem I should post here, it’s this one.
<b>In the Persona of Cloud</b>
A desert pond ekes out a tough existence,
Lonesome amid cactus and gritty cyclone,
Forever striving for a bleak subsistence
In a pit of barren rock, in the flowstone
Shell itself erected in desperation.
I was this pond, and in this solitude
My solace was a grim determination,
A pioneer’s contempt: the sullen mood
Of an outlaw heretic, bent to thwart
The calm united bliss of human waters
With cold division, dryness of the sort
That pierces deep, exposing hidden borders.
I never knew another kind of comfort,
Till Love herself came trodding through this desert,
And dug for me a channel to the ocean.
We streamed together happily, entwined
And intermingled, allied in our glee,
And burst into the sea in jubilation,
Where we dissolved, and I at last would find
Myself, a current in the placid sea.