Processions of parasite, anemic and subjective,
Tranquilize what is curt and trite,
Leaves little to be objective.
We've seen you burn down homes,
In a promise you'll rebuild them,
Never more than a stones throw,
From the burnt dreams of direction.

These stones don't deserve the kiss,
Of dreams unique reflection,
Just a passing hit,
Morality spat upon and empty.

Limp colors of your dead imagination,
Impressing not the elders but the speculation of creation,
You've stoned these brittle windows,
From the safety of cogitation,
Left lonely little sparks,
In the forests of desiccation.

These sand coloured shores,
Are the wind that you've been gifted,
Just ten books from,
Wisdom you can't connect with. 

So we rebuilt our homes on the fires of forever,
Shattered all the dreams that we ever did endeavor,
Spat clay at the wasp stings, 
Gnawed at the hands of our creator,
We never did live a life,
Just wrote one to live later.

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Author guidance for This poem

Is there poison in your pen? Spit the toxins here.

updated Nov 23 '08 by PaulMacklin