Ill[un]ision
It's four fifteen,
And I'm still pouring
Blood down my throat;
Sign a consumerist corpse.
Crawl out from your comfort-hole.
Forced groggily onto sodden leaves,
Snapping away water, oh-so-gently,
In a world that never sleeps
But where brides just dreams of feathers.
I stick in these tears, twisted and dragged
Back first
From the tower of sweet self-confidence.
She cocks her head as she smiles,
"We have the blueprints for more."
Contamination, the road is nothing
For eyes plastered with yesterday's heat.
Carelessness drowns hope for clarity
Forever. Don't return to dig graves.
The road shines in murder-light,
Light the funeral pyre,
Force the sky back into comatose memories.
Adapt a force that entrusted your strength,
Pretend you can outsmart omniscience;
Just forget, Demi-god
We're all fake.
The rain hurdles and breaks on the roof
Metallic, screaming with power,
Ignore the beauty for a second of greed,
But we've cut through the fields,
We watched them go.
I have no time to learn.
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THE GOODS
You're currently reading the poem
Ill[un]ision, which
was posted on Apr 1, 2011 by
Misfit.
This is a solo poem.
Some rights reserved.
This poem is filed under:
Free Verse, Philosophy / Moral
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