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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1622419-Epiphany
by Samuel
Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #1622419
A poem in the midst of turmoil.

Blasphemy! How could any tradition follow?
This verbal onslaught presses cowards and thieves
And victims in hordes
Of deceit and filth and cold hearted malice.
What on this day?
What on any day have I accomplished?
Since the deafness of the moon I stared up at
For years swearing I could avenge,
For what?
I have empty slots in the mind,
The mind where it has been numbed,
Garrotted and clinched,
In the boil of a wet murder.
I stamped on my pillows,
Perhaps ill suck on a sour pitted lemon
And reflect as I always do.
The watch lacks its suitable wrist,
The church is burning,
Sat on the fires,
Seething and awoken to the flame,
A lonesome wreck of a being, the inevitability.
How can it be changed?
Or am I this creature with venom only to himself?
A caged fire with facial expression,
Left in a room alone.
© Copyright 2009 Samuel (samuelgent00 at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1622419-Epiphany