Poet 4: Gnashville

 

 

Drip drip,
Your words
Are silence...
Rip the flesh
Of your conducer...
Softly and slowly
Your voice brings the solace,
It floods with vengeance
That you scarcely understand,
You rush to meet it
And it takes you under...
It wraps you soul
like a vice,
You
sunder.
Now you're the ghost
Of a lost empire,
Free from the fissure
that had once transpired,
You lead the legions of loss
and honour,
No more the solace
turns with great temptation,
The soulless' march is one
Of such hesitation...
Step step,
Their gait
is timeless...
Steal the thoughts
Of the convoluter...
Yet it remains sad and
Empties
Thy heart
Lest they themselves are
But mirrors of apprehension,
Reflections of your own design
And more confined
To your will
And
Mind,
Is this your wish,
Or perception
Of pride
A sign
Of a woeful kind
Ancient youth, you cry
For ages have not quelled your passion,
You pine
For that which is…
With these words I release you, spirit
With these words you are
The leader of the lesser,
And to you I confide;
I have lived
A thousand lives,
And just as none were yours,
Neither were they mine…
No no,
Never were they mine.

The End

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