Cast Aside At The Pinnacle
Carelessly outcasted
She doesn’t belong to the world of others,
Her pack is slowly disintegrating, branching off,
She’s different, an anomaly to this world,
Her societal interactions now muddy waters flowing through life’s trough.
***
Her feathers are fraying, turning greyer by the hour,
As her intricate neural pathways stutter and misfire,
Life has sucked her into a widening rip,
Bashing constantly against the rocks in a catastrophic quagmire.
***
She is no longer necessary to the unit as a whole,
A subtle shifting has cast her aside,
She hears the laughter in the valley below,
Where she’s locked in tight, as she peers in from outside.
***
The blood flows downhill through the river of the useless,
Drained as an outcast, tossed and disposable,
She rants against her steely prison bars,
Trying to fight a destiny she realises is unopposable.
***
Her heart still beats blindly,
She wants to believe in the power of love,
But not only is she disposable, she’s also replaceable,
As her emotions are scattered by the wings of a once white dove.
***
Thunder vibrates through her new world,
Destruction at the core of its intentions,
Only noticeable to her alone, she’s forgettable,
As the world rules against the normal contraventions.
***
A whiff of scented smoke,
Is all that’s left of her last loss,
The aromatic memories die a quiet death,
An epiphany written on a load bearing cross.
***
Too late, the destructive nature has taken a toll,
Innocence foolhardily thrown about as an excuse,
Her heart lines have been snapped, unfixable,
You yourself made and tightened the life taking noose.
***
She sits alone, confused, broken,
Questioning how it is that she has been cast aside,
She tried her best, sacrificed the rest,
Given her everything until her entire world has since died.
***
The sun has set, there’ll be no future,
Tomorrow may come unbidden and forlorn,
No great loss if it shouldn’t dawn in the morning,
She’s too tired to care, heartbroken and timeworn.
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****
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Originally posted on Medium
About the Creator
Colleen Millsteed
My first love is poetry — it’s like a desperate need to write, to free up space in my mind, to escape the constant noise in my head. Most of the time the poems write themselves — I’m just the conduit holding the metaphorical pen.
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Comments (3)
This was so sad but sometimes that's just how we feel. Taken for granted, taken advantage of and being used. Very powerful poem my friend!
Excellent piece.
Ahh, this had so much depth and realness to it. Really great work!