A dedication-to the idol
To the idol, the labouring hand said;
be my hope and bring me joy,
for i cherish your form,
and in your being, rests my hope.
Never shall you break or defy my faith,
and never shall i grow weary of the belief manifest,
for this faith will forever dwell deep in my heart,
and I shall drench it with my love and belief resolute.
And speak said the trembling hand,
All that I long to hear, all that pleases the heart.
Blesses art thou, my hope,
And beneath your shadow, never shall I despair.
But the idol never did a word utter,
nor did it bestow hopes of glory nor feign fervor.
but the blinded hand still saw avowal.
and basked in the latent light of hope.
And then one fateful day the idol broke,
with out any caution or a single sign.
crumbled and faded away, the beloved delusion,
for it was in its fate that it must be so.
And lay bare the wreckage of dismal truths,
the sham allegiance's scattered remains,
and the empty hands, with barren dreams,
quivered under the burden of feign delight.
Only vivid memories that told tales of past,
held fast onto the grieving soul.
And the void that engulfed the bereaved mind,
echoed deep into the soul.
But what else the deluded self shall have?
what more a fallacy may bestow?
what more a faded dream can offer?
but an illusion that mocks back at the forsaken soul.
And how strange the deception of reality,
how real its hue and shape,
how completely it engulfs the mind,
the wretched deceit of but ones own soul.
Forlorn attempt of the misguided eye,
that begot within, a manifestation divine,
leaving behind but agony untold,
burdening the heart with a somber truth.
And what faith, if destined to perish?
What allegiance if an ill fated one?
The chasm that remains but as a grim reminder,
all that is left of the divinity enshrined.
Alas the disdain that ensues,
as the shadow fades and reality unfolds,
the rhetoric of the unforgiving conscience,
piercing through the soul,
But did the soul not know of the foreordained?
was not the fate known to the ever so cautious mind?
dim witted by a bizarre mirage,
Such disgrace when but one own mind is the foe.
Yet the heart invests itself in such frivolous tasks,
none alas can provide solitude to the deluded soul,
none but the infallible, incessant truth,
and what relief shall the mortal soul have from its transient counterparts?
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Comments about this poem (A dedication-to the idol by Ayesha Jabbar )
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(22 March 1941 -)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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