Tamed
A free-spirited cub
Laid on the holy slab
Donned by my mother white.
A willing sacrificial lamb
To get the approval of my father.
He offered me to the altar
In fulfillment of a promise
To pay his dues,
And left me waif outside a shut door
Of a dome I din’t belong.
He dropped me off the road, unknown,
To a journey never understood.
A life he ordered me to live,
Without a map to follow
And lost myself along the way.
I strayed into the wilderness,
Cruel and unforgiving,
Like a vulnerable cub
Bullied by laughing hyenas.
There was no armor
To shield me in the battles
I didn’t expect exist
Inside the dome
That I thought was holy.
I was an easy prey
To predators in school
And the obloquies of my father
When I returned home.
The life raft
I thought I could cling on
In times of storm
Pushed me away,
Drifting, hitting rocks in the shores
That would not welcome me.
I sustained wounds
That bleed inside me
Nobody understood
I leaked many years in silence
To healing ~
Nursed the white cub inside me
And made myself whole again.
I was a reject at 13,
A loser at such a young age.
A picture of defeat,
Expelled from the dome
That many thought
Would determine my future.
The once free-spirited cub
Suddenly became a pariah
Retiring to his digged burrows
Leaving behind no egress,
Descending farther
To a different kind of confinement.
I tried to mimic the hyenas
For awhile to earn my protection
From the harsh world.
A symbiosis I welcomed
Like the anemone
To a clownfish taking shelter
In its stinging tentacled folds
While I build my backbone,
Training my fins to swim
And find the lost me again.
It was a moment
I’m not proud about, and remorseful.
I feel for the souls I stung with words,
For who could understand them better
But me who once was a dartboard
Of ridicules of the hyenas.
I learned to sound like their laughter
But never become them,
For caged within me was a crying cub
I heard clearly
When I chose solitude.
I didn’t belong to any herd
And refused to take their colors,
For I chose to become a new breed
That grows its claws
Not to harm, but to protect.
To weave words not to distroy,
But to re-build the broken spirits.
It took me years
To understand my purpose,
Like the clownfish to survive
Free of my imaginary anemone.
It took me awhile to recognize
The true sound of my laughter
Muted by the loud hyenas.
In solitude I redeemed my voice
I once lost in my desperate attempts
To seek the approval of my father.
I swam the ocean, arrived in the shore
That my creator intended me to be
And found the white cub still clad in white
His mother once donned him,
But now grown
And tamed.
—–
HAVE A WONDERFUL YEAR OF THE WHITE TIGER, EVERYONE!
I wish you well.
~ Jeques
What About The Morning?
When all the grains
Of smile are drained
Through the lips
Of the time glass,
All the joys gone,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When the refraction of ray
Doesn’t reach you,
Barred by layers
Of doldrums, and soak you
In the dark marshes that drown
Your spirit slowly
Down the quicksand,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When all the fragrance
Has left you
Suffocating in the unsought
Scents of things,
You’re ready to succumb
To obloquies that knock you
Black and blue,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When the sweet tang
Of moments
Tinged your heart
With gawky bitter taste
That numbs you,
And forget their better flavors after,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When icy days
Suddenly embrace you,
Chilled in the midst of strangers;
Unclad even with coats on, and shivering.
Cold in summer sun,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
When music halted to a final note,
Lyrics suddenly turn to threnodies
As mirth fades to distance,
And absence.
Duet losing words, and songs,
Or so it seems,
What about the morning?
View everything
From the bottom of the time glass
Ever accepting each speck of grains
Engulfed by its lips,
Collected in the base
Joys
Sorrows
Memories
Moments ever feed you
With fresh grains again, and again
And again, no end. Once more,
The gifts of the morning
Bring back lost smiles
In the lips of your time glass
To fill your heart,
And think of me.
What about the morning?
—
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