The corn has wilted. The trees have dried. I haven't seen another person in what feels like months. The sea is crimson, the sky green. My own hands have been soaked by battle.
Though the sun is out it's shining only darkness. The aura around the moon is that of a dying man. Touched by scarlet, a reflection of my own feelings. The animals hide, I haven't hunted. I wish to die, but my infinite hunger is nonexistent.
I've all but forgotten my language and prayer. There was a time when a psalm was acknowledged. Now the verse of praise is useless. No response.
The sea, it was beautiful, clear and holy. My nostalgia has not faded sated or should I say subsided? The words of description have escaped me. I have stabbed myself. For the first moment in years I swear I saw flowers grow below my feet.
From my blood the animals have fed, the trees have been watered, regrown in gorgeousness but utter depravity. I've torn out my own heart yet it grows again. I still have not died. The pain now feels like a prick no longer a stab. Why have I not died?
My hands have been soaked in the cries of yet another man. They attacked me. They gave no warning. They assaulted me through my protest and plea. I felt monstrous. I've been wounded, dealt a fatal blow. I live still. It was defense.
The forest has begun their feed. The corpse of the man their meal. My prayer has been ignored again, yet now my own mind pounds. The voices won't let up or yield. Why can't I die?
YOU ARE READING
Lackluster writing...bad writer.
詩歌Confessional poems. These are how I feel about myself and the things around me. These poems mean a lot to me. I may not be a good writer but I wanted at least anonymously to share them.
