Wednesday 2 May 2012

Torment



At times like this we pray,
But we have no tongues,
What to do when all our ways
Are stacked in airless lungs?
At times like this we believe,
But we have no souls,
What can a man with little heart grieve
Without letting all his masks fall?
The hand of the poet sleeps,
In the faithless moments to dream,
Reality into the darkness seeps,
And it becomes one with his scream,
Not said but understood,
Not understood but surely known,
How can his eye willingly embrace the blood
When beauty took off its garments and shone?
Blood is the storyteller beneath the skin,
Blood is the silent pathways trapped,
Carrying trails of virtue and sin,
How when spilled can they by a poet be grabbed?
Early enough, to burn bright down the street,
Late enough, to destroy all what they touch,
They run and curve and under his feet
They stop, Ah! Why begin a flow as such?
The poet wanders, the city falls dead,
And he, alone, a prayer so silent,
At the last place a word rests her head,
His temptress muse, gone into a vacuum violent,
A response with the last trace of air,
In exchange to holding on to a world
His world, even more real than their
Cage with their own greed a sword,
There he stands grieving his own childhood,
And their he grieves their most dreadful sin,
and he shuts his eyes as tight as he could
So tell me, poet, lover, friend, father, twin,
In your world, does the devil still win?

2 comments:

  1. does evil win?? - i believe, we are the reason the blood stream never stops ,
    our silence is a sin , for which blood is no longer sacred.
    evil is not wining , this is a soul-less nation.

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  2. that's exactly what i'm thinking but don't wanna believe yet.. i just don't want to believe that about humanity... it's too harsh to take bgad...

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