Contributor, Kealan McAllister’s first poem for the Inkpot. Photo Source: Fresh Eye Solutions.
Kealan McAllister, Contributor.
A traveler walked alone through the woods of his despair
He knew not how long he walked, where he went he did not care
He’d only heard of the thing he yearned to find
The voices of lost souls seemed to echo in his mind
And without a light to guide him he was blind
The heavy burden that he carried would force him daily to his knees
And his mind would often urge him to lay down his head and freeze
For who will really miss him when he’s gone
Just when he’d given up, his will to carry on withdrawn
Through the trees he saw a clear from whence it shone
He stumbled to the fire, he warmed himself by her flame
To his cheeks returned some colour, to his extremes some feeling came
In him welled joy and wonder as he looked at what he’d found
As the wailing voices he heard, to which he was seemingly bound
Fell away, to give yet any, but little sound
She had relieved him of his loneliness, but her light began to wane
This filled him with anguish and torment, not for himself but at her pain
Desperately he gathered fuel for her to burn
Out of wood, he gave part of himself, and too late he would learn
He’d never get it back, never would it return
Never before in his life had he seen a blaze so bright
A kaleidoscope of colour, a mirage of shimmering light
Drawn closer to the fire he could see
Himself within the flames, a phantom, fulfilled, content and free
He was aware of their delusion, but he longed for it to be
So naïve and full of yearning he would later wish he weren’t
For he danced too close to the fire
And he got badly burnt
Reeling from the pain, he let his wrath prevail
Through waves of rage and misery, he rashly filled a pail
And doused the fire, and with a hiss her light and love did fail
When the darkness descended, and the cold chilled him to the bone
Only then did he realise that he was again alone
Apart from the moaning voices in his head
Which had returned with more fervor, filling him with dread
He wept; it was he who they’d misled
Alone although he was, he would endeavor on to go
For she’d given him a part of her, a little lantern all aglow
Although the light it cast was faint, and the warmth it gave was weak,
It reminded him of what he’d lost, and of the thing he did now seek,
Not to receive the love he had, but to be the warmth and light
For others trudging through the dark like him, a beacon in the night.
Published by The Gown Queen's University Belfast
The Gown has provided respected, quality and independent student journalism from Queen's University, Belfast since its 1955 foundation, by Dr. Richard Herman. Having had an illustrious line of journalists and writers for almost 70 years, that proud history is extremely important to us. The Gown is consistent in its quest to seek and develop the talents of aspiring student writers.
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