In the chaste gray world-poetry of Frank Feldman, p. 1 of 2 pp.

In the chaste gray world
In the chaste gray world of the cold gaunt child, Hung from the hook where the skin was spun, Filled with the dusty breath of moths And stained in mist by a haunted sun, His unfettered spirit would soar up in wonder, In splendor of slumber though he was within The room of the woman he clearly remembered As spindly and scowling while spinning her skin. She would rise from her work to pass cruelly through curtains And grab by the throat without pity the one Who escaped all the blows that now rained down upon him By leaving his body until she was done. But do not despair, my vicarious readers, These disasters just lasted the length of his youthA kid who encounters the kindness of strangers Can blossom and bloom once he stumbles on truth. The delicate scent of the forest engulfed him, An intricate puzzle began to unfoldAssured of survival, he wandered the landscape, A confident boy needn’t do what he’s told. Soon came the mindless and whole-hungry madness, The quivering cravings of limbs set on fire By sweaty and sweltering sensuous bodies Whose whispering mouths breathed the flames of desire. Setting his eggs in a breakable basket, A nexus of ecstasy feasting on flesh, He fin’lly felt free from his personal prison, Drunk with the dream that two souls would now mesh. Such are the foolish delusions of children Who think other people can undo their pastThey finally discover no stranger or lover

In the chaste gray world-poetry of Frank Feldman, p. 2 of 2 pp. Can stitch up their wounds in a way that can last. Don’t resign him to ruin quite yet, my dear readers, For broken hearts mend and survivors surviveHe laced up his boots as he eyed the horizon And assumed ‘twas his fortune to go forth and thrive. Modestly gifted, he’d nurtured through childhood Lascivious music and purplish proseMysterious truths that now soothed him and helped him Escape into ether when troubles arose. Now on good terms with life, he smacked sharp into death, Which is always the moment when childhood endsOne then grieves or goes numb, which is not up to you, For it’s fate that determines if what’s left transcends What both nature and nurture have given and taken, Whether you had strong roots or can grow them anewHis body and mind now began to grow anxious, As the numbness subsided, he finally knew That he’d have to do battle with things long forgotten, With things he’d suppressed long before he’d turned fiveWith the love and the passion, the hurt and the rage, All the terror and dread that he’d buried alive... If he triumphed or failed, I for one cannot say, It matters not much or at all either wayWhether dances or dirges began then to play, The world will still wake up brand new ev’ry day.

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