English - Year 9 'Flying' Challenge

Matilda in Year 9 has taken on the challenge of writing a poem titled Directions after reading Billy Collins' poem of the same name (which you can read here:  'Directions').  

I'll think you'll agree with me that Matilda's poem is full of beautiful imagery.  As she says, "I've decided to theme it on the deconstruction of ideas, as well as focus less on description, and more on the thought experiment".  

Directions

The path at the back of the house

It meanders far into the bleak horizon

Beyond the garden, where the ancients wizen

Where the world fades in a distant haze

And first you leave the house, deconstruction’s pioneer

And that echo you’re accustomed to stops ringing in your ears

And the blackened city smoke slowly disappears

The countryside, the mortal life

The conveyor leading us to die

Had the door slammed on its face.

Follow the directions

You walk out, and the barren hills

That you saw through the windows lens

Have sprung life

The path wanders a little further

The arms of trees outstretched

The animals greatly impressed

That you made it this far down the garden pavement

Follow the directions

Flower stalks contort, as you go further

The path underneath your feet is shattered like glass

Rest for the best on the roots of the sycamore tree

Warmed by the light of the sun

Until the hills awaken

With many eyes, and many mouths, covered in masks

The world, and the original house splits in half

The sun breaks and reveals its mechanical parts

And the great gods keep fighting

Run, run further

Nowhere else to go but further.

Screeching stifles the ears as the crowd of the arena cheers

And watches the frameworks duel

Human comprehension is divine intervention

So we don’t have to witness that we’ve been lied to

Even in a world where nothing is true

Stay in the ‘real’ or the ‘fake’?

No.

Follow the directions

You run to the edge of the path

It blurs and fades where the daffodils begin to wilt

At the edge of the never-ending patch of hills

Contorted into shape by the ancient’s will

The nothing awaits you, as you appear the edge of the face’s gaping mouth

That hovers, holding the real and the fake in its systems

Come knock on my door, you can find me here

In knowing of the lies, but still binded by fear

Hopefully, we can talk for a bit

I’m sure reaching the edge has your mind wrecked

The nothing’s haze is all that awaits

As the self is found in the great abyss

Now...follow your own directions