the old ages we reach
faded cloth on the floor
left to strand on the dessicated wretch
of what once lay before
my words of fabled tongues
new renaissances of the league
the captured lungs of another love
left only to root in rage
what began as a simple perplexion
now reigned my days till dying light
until my bones no longer moved
and my eyes no longer read
what could have been the end
but bled out far too long
is now my wretched beginning
a means to a fleeting dream
i work these psalms into ideas
that could be barely read
by the naked eye alone
i am a ghost of my former resolute
but now i am my maker
a creator of tales
my schizophrenic prayers
yelping into the daggered air
oh how we wait
in the passing graves of our mothers
to escape what we made ourselves
and made ourselves out to be
what began as passion
soon became obsession
raw, raging sycophants
forever a dying depression
CZYTASZ
if not human
Poezjathe anthology of emotion, the passing of life, the epilogue of pure, unfiltered regret this is "if not human" poems, prose and stories from the dark
