Struggling to see through this fog
Stimulate my senses, dirty air
Cleanse my hands by burning out
The sin that’s found within
My bones
The infrastructure of my tomb
It holds me in and whispers doom
It’s thick enough I start to choke
Spiritual asthma has me down
Rinse and repeat, my hands are gone
If it offendeth me, cut it off
My home
Four cornerstones that split in two
And yet there were nine halves
Staggering aimlessly, nowhere to go
You thought you’d find me unharmed
You don’t know me, or you don’t know.
No, I don’t think you could understand
My phone’s-
off, I turned it off for this, for you
And you couldn’t even look me in the eyes
You’re conquering my thoughts without trial
Where is my say? Why are you here?
Judas still called Him the proper name
Still yet I’m here on my hands and knees
Rome
Bipolar in the sense of my Telestial tithes
And yet I still only find you peculiar
-
Author:
Tom Wood (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: June 2nd, 2022 20:10
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 20
Offline)
Comments3
The See at various times no longer sees, its holiness lost to the striving of the centuries. Hope that thought was not misaligned in the reading of this effulgent poem. Thanks for sharing.
Yep, this is quite effulgent! *gets out dictionary to check what I'm on about* heehee.
striking imagery
really well written
thanks for sharing, dear poet
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