Freedom

„You must be ready to relief me

From my existence.”

“What do you mean?”

Are you prepared to shoot me?”

No, I could never shoot a friend

Or a person close to me.”

(Does she mean this dialogue as

Some sort of metaphor for the

Small Death – AKA Le Petite Mort?)

“Where could I get a pistol?”

“You could buy one at the black

Market.”

“Well…?”

“But then, why that violent death?”

“It’s quick and it’s sure.”

“So are pills as a death-help in some

Countries.”

 

I felt disturbed listening to a friend’s

Outcry

Who suffers from physical pains

But more so from pains of her soul.

The Poet is the best person to feel

This personal abyss of hers

As he is endowed with extrasensory

Perceptive antennae.

Now, with this woman

Mentor

Employer of foreigners and

Artists

Poets and the unemployed.

As a poet I feel love would heal her

For good

But as her spouse is extremely

Jealous

It will be impossible to find a space

And enough time for privacy and

Recovery

That’ll take time

Effort and the building of trust

The coordination of feelings

Amplified thru’ a triad of love:

Heart

Body and Soul.

The Poet will pursue it and provide

Her the relief she is seeking

Place her Muse-being on to the

Centre of his art and giving:

Humanly

Artistically.

She has to celebrate with him her

Freedom

Something she regretfully never

Had access to.

Personal freedom.

Freedom.modeerF

 

zoltanzelan

ZJG-POetry’18.

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