Dead was the rain. Dead was the wind. Dead.
Dead was the forest. Dead was the stream. Dead.
Dead was the soil. Dead was the mountain. Dead.
Dead was the hound. Dead was the dream. Dead.
Living I'd not have grown to want. Living.
Living I'd not have grown to greed. Living.
Living I'd not have grown to steal. Living.
I'd not have grown to murder, rape and war. Living.
Oh! This rage is too much! Not hers… mine! The sickle twists its frown down to face me. Must I extend my hands only to touch a lifeless screen? Must I line my path only in barbs of glass?
My melancholy eyes drain indifference inside tears. My cheerless, screened in face glimmers without hope. My dead heart is in all of my charity and cannot weep enough, they’re the tornado standing ankle high to my lovelessness.
Dead was the bloom. Dead was the child. Dead.
Dead was the honor. Dead was the truth. Dead.
Dead was the river. Dead was the eagle. Dead.
Dead was the canyon. Dead was the pew. Dead.
Living I'd not have grown nearer to death. Living.
Living I'd not have grown to dust. Living.
Living I'd not have grown to lies. Living.
I should have grown to cherish, honor and love. Living.
© 2011 by mark prime
I wish I had your gift...I love you!
ReplyDeleteMy dear I cannot take credit for what my muse gives me to write. Your gift of goodness trumps anything I'm able to give. I love you...
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