you tell me of unimaginable things,
no lungs or breath to ever unspeak.
I am forced into sparse mindscapes,
unseen acres allow endless germinations.
Yesterday is that which obsessively remains,
where I am selflessly engulfed in tomorrow,
in my ignorance to such woe and pain,
such sorrow.
This exacted hour reimburses everything omitted.
and I am nothing.
I am nothing, my voice is deathly erased,
you, with rigour, inducer of mortis, and angel,
of darkness, and darkness holds you, culpable.
Remover of shackles, lamb to the slaughter,
A Loving Mother.
-
Author:
Yorke (
Offline) - Published: December 8th, 2015 02:58
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
Offline)
Comments1
I think there are many levels to this poem. Think that its one of those that you have to read again and again when you are in different moods to fully understand. thank you
Hi thanks for your reply.There is a lot I have not said in this write, of what has actually happened, but it is written about a particular subject and the questions raised by such acts. I feel sometimes it is better to hijack a thought and write about the thought rather than the subject.thank you very much for reading and I appreciate you taking the time to reply.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.