Here at the end of everything, there births a stretching void.
The frail echos of that which was, in history alloyed.
And as the final heat escapes, as path and word grow old,
The frigid sacred flame of fear is cast upon the fold.

The congregation quarrels, on thousand wisdoms choke.
The priestess sheds a smiling tear to sanctify the joke.
Each and all cower and sing, we cringe as we are thrown,
To worlds so unpredictable, hostile and unknown.

Bless this sharp uncertainty, wielding her blade of flame.
Remember we're all here to die,
Free from fetid name.

  • Author: Quemis (Offline Offline)
  • Published: March 15th, 2022 00:09
  • Comment from author about the poem: ...
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 14
  • User favorite of this poem: L. B. Mek.


  • L. B. Mek

    tarnished by residue dirt, we accrue
    ducking, life's zeal for chaos
    and lamenting our warped, fortunes
    of good intentions by the majority
    being poisoned
    by the selfish few of society's, forsaken;
    who climb to prominence
    on wings of self intrust and ambitious self reliance..
    this, be our cyclical duality
    of humourless, absurdity
    this, dear Poet
    be, what your words of insightful
    poetic damnation, showcase
    a succinct poetic portrayal
    of that pitifully, entangled states
    humanity ends-up, trying to free itself from
    disaster after disaster
    generation after generation
    'fetid name'
    after, bleak
    'fetid namelessness'
    (a great write!
    of poignantly Timely, commentary
    thanks for sharing)

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