This being human is as tabula rasa
some have said. Imagining her foetus
folded and moulded in wax
must melt a mother’s’ heart.
Opaque as opal, veined and marbled
with a little wick of white bones.
She lights a candle when the wick is trimmed.
With breath of life, the small flame’s tended
drip fed milk-white molten drops.
So do infants rise as a pillar is meant
straight and reaching for the light
with stars and pressed flowers
in the waxen skin, smelling of almonds.
Yet all too human we mature misshapen.
Deform by emotive storms, vicissitudes
that add a tapered twist. And multitudes
of words once heard graffitied deep within:-
This human being is well-written now
skin aged and puckered as beeswax
awaiting the eternal flame.
*tabula rasa – blank wax tablet. Philosophy of humans in original pure state, yet to be altered by outside forces.
For her Poetics prompt Kim asks us to write a metaphor poem that starts with Rumi's words: "This being human is"