This post is in response to the Blog Challenge by Tilda Swift at her blog, Swift Expression. This is my entry for number 1.
If any of my readers derives inspiration from this post and would like to do something similar on their own blog, please provide full credit to the owner of the original Blog Challenge (as stated above) to abide by copyright laws.
This is a poetry theme and I’m doing it first because I detest poetry (usually) because it’s not a strength of mine. At all. And I hated studying it in school because I could never understand it. And I know that there is a whole bunch of literary devices with funny names that would probably tell me what to put into this thing to make it readable, but I’m too lazy.
Theme: Dare I?
The street looks foreboding
Laced with pine trees and tall oaks
The descending sun glows, glinting off the falling leaves
The leaves scatter across the cold ground
While the noises of sheltered birds fill the air
Outside, all is peaceful
But no quiet can be found here
Just one thought dances in my mind
Like a dancer who never danced before
In a dark, empty theatre.
The thought doesn’t have wings
It doesn’t shine,
But it changes everything
This thought may be malevolent
Or it could be my salvation
The only way to discover the truth
Is to do something I’m not prepared to do
People say the same cliche time and time again
Life is all about action and uncertainty
Every greatness requires risk
Even the ancients had the same idea…
Pandora couldn’t stand her curiosity
So she opened the box and doomed all of man
Countless terrors sprang forth
One person to blame for untold suffering
But she dared open the box
Entertain the dangerous thought in her mind
Does that make her foolish?
If she were a man, she’d be called a hero
“The one who dared to open the box”
“The one who guarded hope in spite of trials”
Double standard, don’t you think?
But this is not an old myth,
This is a war.
Is this how the martyrs felt
Right before they were led into the Colosseum?
Is this the feeling Anne Boleyn had
When she fastened cloak for the last time?
Or is it the one Franklin D. Roosevelt had
When he sang with Winston Churchill?
The thought struggles to the surface
Like a drowning man desperate to live
His lungs burning and his will wavering
Every movement noticeable
Dragged down by the knowledge that the end
The person that he is and was
The man he will be, would have been
Is one choice away from being gone
Do we wage war today with the thought,
Or do we ignore it?
If we finally pick it up
Feel it, look at it
Listen to it…
We will die.
The last remnants of our past will break and buckle
Then shatter like fine crystal
Is the thought the answer to my question,
Or is it my doom?
I stare at it, transfixed
Then set it back on the shelf for another day;
For I don’t dare to die today
Without knowing I’ll rise tomorrow.