The cactus burnt the bridge;
Yet the thorns were inside all along.
The birdcage hath no smidge;
Yet the eggs were birthed without song.
ith harrowing beauty, imperishable to all,
A voice in the plagued distance squealed like a swine;
"Beneath an Indian nightfall,
This unburdened body shall be mine."
Buckets of rain fell upon plastic eyes;
Yet the monsoon evoked no emotion.
Reactions were chemical and of sighs;
Yet slept beneath callous blankets of devotion.
ith horrendous ease, tranquil to only the bleeding eye,
A voice within wonting intimacy, whispers loosely;
"Above a cemetery of seriousness, wicked and shy,
This child you call your own shall kill you lucidly."
A rebirth is as clear as erotic clouds;
Yet not nearly as satisfying.
A life can be without mistakes moulded aloud;
Yet that is the same as dying.
With horrible perfection, strait and mellow,
A voice of murmurs and rumours, speaks honest and hollow;
"The shield juxtaposing a harp gruesome and yellow,
Burns in the snow, beneath the saintlike agent of Hell you follow."
YOU ARE READING
Long Soon Gone
PoetryPart 6 of my 2021 series. Long Soon Gone is a collection of poems that are highly abstract and cryptic. Much of the messages and themes are up to interpretation. This collection is very special to me as I feel that it represents me best and just abo...
