The Past Tense (Always Seems Imperfect)

Another one! This is the first poem I ever wrote, dating back to December of last year. It has previously appeared in the 2011-2012 Edition of Alloy Literary Magazine. Eventually I will get around to posting more current writings, as my style has altered considerably over the months. However, English majors have very little time to read and write (outside of the curriculum that is). Weirdest and truest paradox of all. The fact that my favorite key is the delete might also have something to do with my reluctance…

The Past Tense (Always Seems Imperfect)

by: Miranda Wojciechowski

There is a window in my mind,

an internal world glimpsed

only through hazy reflection.

Light filters, quietly illuminates,

yet obscures what I seek to hide

from myself. Its presence makes my heart ache

to merge completely with its translucence.

Descending into a drowsy, poignant awareness

Of all I believed I lacked.

I often wonder, wistfully

imagining the interior decor

of a purely existential existence.

A tranquil seclusion, bathed

in pastel light. A dark, circular room,

the walls an inextricable whirl

of optic illusion endlessly extending

into a single, penetrating skylight.

Or does it only appear so

from the outside?

I think it would be easy

to be trapped in the mind,

frantically clawing at the smooth walls

of consciousness, until you fall

on your knees, desperately thirsty

for rare drops of sunlight

to drip onto your tongue.

After centuries where time

stood still, to be reminded

by an unknown crack in the stones,

eroded by the caressing of so many hands,

that there was another world once,

from which you tried to escape.

If only you had known then.

Because from this uptilted angle

the world is simply mysterious,

Beautiful, a mote of dust in the light

beckoning towards the buzzing neon.

You are now ready to move upwards

from the shadows on the wall.

This is what it means

To be at peace.


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