The Interior

The Interior

I am half sick of shadows,
Falling from all the weary verticals:
The weave of time and burden of place.
The river is open, the horizon closed.
I wonder how much this life can disclose.
The world will begin, the world will end.
I can balance lust with many intricate ends,
Dropping to the floor, running to the door.
Flesh out a mortal son just as womanhood has begun.
I don’t hold out hope for the higher spheres;
An earthly paradise is what there is:
The lavish praise for mortal beauty,
Dwelling over the earth, but few ever see
The luminosity that makes us free.

The poem is based on the Pre-Raphaelite painting, ‘I am half sick of shadows’ by John William Waterhouse. The last in his series illustrating The Lady of Shalott.

www.jwwaterhouse.com/view_large.cfm?recordid=19