Thursday, December 20, 2007

Just a draft

Sometimes I like to pretend I'm a poet.

Untitled

There isn't much left to say,
all these words, so many characters.
Nothing changed, nothing arranged,
still breathing murky solutions;
still crowded by fool dreams;
still that same dullard child
staring stupid into the sun.
Blind, burned, and bound,
eternal tethers these futile causes -
he becomes trifling amusement.

Self-determined souls sing a chorus,
melodies for the gods they make.
Rhythmic hymns of worship
as spirits recede and rescind
the words they spoke to believe,
embracing tired, conciliatory illusions.
Trodden down beneath the muck,
steeped through pore and orifice
under and into a higher purity -
they reap that so often sown.

Containment is where the heart resides
Bored and nailed against the light of eyes
glimmering hope and new day gold
For the sake of false prophecy
Misbegotten heretical work
Knotted tongue testimony on trusting minds
Entangled thoughts falter at his feet
Becoming the nest of lice and vermin
a powdery reality to lie within -
a fitting final resting space.

Labels:

Posted by Erik @ 12/20/2007 04:24:00 PM