The windows of my home are all blown out,
the sashes are broken and torn;
the lintel is hove in and the eaves are fell down
the stoop is cold and forlorn.
The wind doesn’t howl in this poem, not yet,
where there is nothing yet to regret,
but I have everything I need to tear it down
and I wait, still,
while everything remains calm in the storm.
Brother Fallen, my high school English Literature teacher was a phenomenal person: a Shakespeare aficionado, a dynamic teacher and a fantastic intellectual guide. I can still hear him hammering home the central theme of the tragedies: every man holds within himself the seeds of his own destruction.
Thank you for reading Still, as the moment lingers on. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.