deepundergroundpoetry.com
The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
At the quiet break of dawn,
The mists,
A mind inside the fog,
They play,
An orchestral curtain,
It bends,
Divides with waves
Of ancient palms,
In the solemn light of day
The heart,
A lonely hunter,
Cursed fates cruel hand,
Ensnared, and its
Vocations bared,
Then made to dance
Through the year’s first snow,
And as the stars
Laid down to rest,
Her subtle eyes
Were odd and cold,
Gloaming,
Black,
For lack of words,
This trappers catch,
Its sojourn holds.
The mists,
A mind inside the fog,
They play,
An orchestral curtain,
It bends,
Divides with waves
Of ancient palms,
In the solemn light of day
The heart,
A lonely hunter,
Cursed fates cruel hand,
Ensnared, and its
Vocations bared,
Then made to dance
Through the year’s first snow,
And as the stars
Laid down to rest,
Her subtle eyes
Were odd and cold,
Gloaming,
Black,
For lack of words,
This trappers catch,
Its sojourn holds.
Published 6th Oct 2010
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6th Oct 2010 9:57pm
7th Oct 2010 8:16pm
29th Jan 2011 1:28am
I forgot you came this way. Nice poem sir, and I imagine it means you too have read a damn fine read, even if it is in Oprah's book list!
14th Feb 2011 10:41pm
Yes indeed sir, I had just watched the film adaptation about a week before as well. I had more of the sentiment of the story in my head, rather than the actual events, when I wrote this.
Anonymous
2nd Dec 2013 9:39pm
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