This is one of the versions of my poem, Characters, which has been written and rewritten several times without having reached a point where I considered it ‘finished’ if, indeed, such a point exists with any poem.
CHARACTERS
Lay down the book, the story now resolved,
and close the cover, like a secret gate
that leads on to another place and time,
where characters, whose names we knew of late
in lives, unscripted now, luxuriate.
Like sleeping children’s’ toys that come alive
in dark, somnolent houses at day’s end,
the dazzling characters we conjured up,
from author’s mind and moving hand on pen,
resume strange lives we cannot comprehend.
May we assume they have exciting times
when free from reader and from author’s hold?
Or do they, merely actors, feed the cat,
take holidays, in winter, feel the cold?
And like ourselves, reluctantly, grow old?
Rare example (these daze) of poetry and fine craftsmanship combined xe
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