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Written by RainPoet
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Friday, 10 July 2009 |
I am inside of myself,
Bearing all that aches, all that is beautiful.
And time, like a father, scolds and does not renew
But casts imaginings in false direction,
burning hope, burning the pale.
So my hands, so worn at youth,
pluck the petal-flesh of flowers' shells
They mourn, they whither, they bear new children
And I prolong to murder even them.
Their thorns are not my own, and yet they linger
So sore and bruised against my chest,
Heaving,
Striving to break loose the vines
that are the devils in their worlds.
Bleak and sensitive, we possess familiar
lyrics
For, when stripped bare of our own armor,
What is left?
But a simple, helpless seed.
-Rain Poet
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Last Updated ( Friday, 10 July 2009 )
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