Paper Genocide And Bleeding Hearts

The words blur like early-morning clouds,

They dance across the page,

Like cheerful yet raging flames devouring the arms of a cross,

Burning in sleeves of charred red-black tattoo.

 

Fraying yellow-white knots of ripped-out pages,

Lie in the cold ashes of their cremated paper family,

Silent mourning, ink slithering in tear-tracks,

Awaiting a similiar fate, genocide.

 

I watch souls die as they are drowned in a bottle,

I witness them blown away in wisps of silver smoke,

Life grinds hearts into a fine powder underfoot,

And erodes every mind.

 

But the ashes of my bruised and bleeding heart,

My faithless soul,

My madness-ravaged mind,

Are scattered and discarded among the pages of this book.

 

 

 

The End

73 comments about this poem Feed