Page: Profile: Poetry
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VxPoem ID: 26457
Posted: January 18th. 2007 10:47:46 AM
The birth of sickle and thorn
Age Group: Adult
Oh, the birth of sickle and thorn,
they burn the wound of motherly scorn,
it’s guilt and retribution,
never mutating to hate
and then the passing evening brings
the scents coming too late…
the thanks rings hollow
and barely brush me as they bounce off my door,
the talking epiphanies are mere
specks of dust upon my glazed floor,
they stain my existence
with conscience when I will it not
their ugly faces gloat at me like a sooty black clot—
goddess, you’re hate is too much
to hold and believe,
and yet instead of reprimanding,
for you: I grieve…
such a sorry smite was your ferocious bite,
that my throat aches in quenched laughter
and yet your voice murmurs apology
even as you drive me faster,
down towards the edge of surrealist pictographs and chains
all reaching towards me! menacingly! wanting me again,
to touch their cold metal and be entangled
as I fall… until I’m suspended
over hell, but supported nonetheless,
dependant and stubbornly emotionless
keep the mind blank! screams my tingling nerves,
I cannot let them feel power, it’s not what I deserve,
and as the horror rises… to great me as images on walls,
they make the tarot spread for me,
depicting my inexcusable stall… when
I should be rushing, fighting, pushing—
what will they not do, to make me seem
inferior as they’re crushing, as demonstration
with no moderation, no mercy or pity left behind
to the struggling souls they torture
they’re screaming in my mind! what hell
below me, cannot compare to that within me
for I see them, they’re dying,
they’re mine! for the taking!
but I don’t touch them…
they’re filthy… filled with greed
hate, emotionless need! don’t touch me
I’m not yours, you’ll never have me, though you want me,
you can’t use me nor abuse me,
because I control those contours,
the lines on the face, the move of the hand,
the thoughts that my dreams chase,
or the emotions that chase after past lands,
the still life is all mirroring… the rendering I
snatched and captured, it struggles—
no longer… it’s my home, this graph,
the tall mage with a mage staff, and all
throughout weaving and checking the time span,
there’s no place that is insolent enough to
name itself unknown, all the glasses
that shatter about me… they’re not really
shattered enough for me to bother
to bend over and stop their reflection
from catching my eye, with my shadow,
they feel the need to dim as I pass,
and that’s enough from their mellow existence
just one thing, all you voices—
don’t shout anymore!
January 18, 2007
Author's Location: Szeged, Hungary
More Poems: Widdershins has posted 234 additional poems- View them?
Author's Profile: To learn more about Widdershins - Click HERE
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