Find me like a tale untold
The faded pages of words unread
Crafted by the love of a surrendered past
Shrouded in a veil of dust that jackets me
But keeps the sake of me uncastled
Where weathered walls house a hero long forgotten
Of childhood promise faded and lost
Like a stuffed companion well-beloved,
now held together with photographs and memories
Like the war-torn treasured heart in my chest
Exposed like a jewel awaiting theft
...
Fable the chains of words that bind me
To the shadows of doubt that consume me
Drowning in a moat void of hope
Barred by scattered words and broken dreams
Trapped between the seams of pages that cell me
As I wait for the knight of a lover’s rescue
To fell me the oak of gold and write my soul anew
And rid me from the brittle plot I hold
Fan me through the lines of forgotten tropes
And burn the pages of self-restraints
...
Narrate me from the confines of me
And seed my thoughts of chapters new
I will wait for you until the dragon's last breath or the third act's death
Place your hand upon my heart and exhume me from my fallen self
Bask me in the crescent of your arms
Cast me in the light of a life thought lost
Breathe me free from the pages left unturned
So you can read me back to life…
and hear me full of hope.
......
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© Simon George 2026. All Rights Reserved.
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About the Creator
Simon George
I write poetry, fiction, and non-fiction. In 2021, I published my debut book "The Truth Behind The Smile" a self-help guide for your mental health based on my personal experience with depression. Go check it out.
IG: @AuthorSimonGeorge
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Foot Bindings
I asked my grandmother how she knew she'd fallen in love. I am not sure I ever did love him, she said. This was before I met my husband. I was naive, a naked spring, a raw nerve of a thing. That cannot ever be me, I knew. Sadness swept in gently like a Moscow thaw. It is no simple thing, looking into a woman's vast soul and seeing its foot bindings. Now, in Italy divorced with my skin singed off, when I say I don't love him mean: I have succeeded at feeling nothing most days and it mostly works. Do you want the comfort of Nothing? Do you want Nothing, too? Be warned: you'll never be free, even when you are nothing. Here is what doesn't work: Accepting the stages of grief. Talking about it. Sitting with the feeling. Missing him—no, the person you were when you believed in death do us part. Writing poetry. That, too. When I say I don't love him I mean: I feel capsized in an endless, starved tide. What sometimes works: selective memory. You must forget ripe tomatoes and his beard and feeling perfectly sheltered in a big blue world. Forget coffee in bed, laughter watching TV, blowing out the candles on the birthday cake and the quiet all-encompassing knowledge that you are chosen. Remember only how love turned to a banal everyday survival act, a trapeze act unsure whether he will catch you, how the warmth stagnated and became sour, remember the foot bindings and remember the resentment boiling in your veins as you stick it out for the kids. Six-hour Netflix binges help, too. A man's fingers tracing your spine. Frozen pizza at 2 a.m. Random trips to the museum just to stand near things that last a while. The realization that crying won’t change anything. Seeing that life is just a dream, and refusing to participate in your own suffering. Bite your fist. Walk on eggshells around joy. When I say I don't love him, I mean he didn’t break my heart, he just stopped touching it and it forgot how to beat right.
By Ella Bogdanovaabout 7 hours ago in Poets
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