Pyrrhic victory
When I was a baby in the cloth My victory lay beyond the cloth My work was in the mountains And my path unending in the horizon While I lay to lullabies and flies. My victory would surely be then Beyond the dark of my eyelids, Swaddle-cloth and purple dreams But he seemed to be laughing Sarcastically at my victory thoughts. All this was his sarcasm, showing me Who wore the pants in the world And his little drama unfolded outside, While my mother’s hand rocked The baby –me in swaddle clothes. It was as though there was no victory Only a humiliating seeming-victory In the toothless gurgle of babyhood.
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Poetry based upon actual experiences, not one thought up in the intellectual aridness of a pseudo-thinker. Words as they mean in the specific context of recollected thought or image , not meaning several things at a time but that which re-creates an aura or a haze of an earlier experience.
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