Gory water trickles into the never-ending gulley,
It is a directionless pursuit of unarrangement.
Swarming the banks are eyeless flowers,
Stabbing themselves, aware of their hurting wounds.
They screech and they shout at the builder of the gulley,
Some shout in one direction- of the flowing red course,
Others shout elsewhere, confused, misjudged, fooled,
For the eyeless hear fictional visions of mediums on the banks.
Etched along this slope exist more gulleys,
More sightless flowers, seeing the illusionary builder of their streams.
They too scream and shout, they too beseech the named,
Spitting at those with eyes, they curse their god forsaken sight.
Bloody essence trickles into the pit of futile misery.
The chase of summer springs, and of sunny meadows.
Within these mass graves are decayed emotions,
Eyeless corpses of eyeless entities.
They see the chastised ghosts of sighted flowers,
See them drowning and extinct in a sea of sacred silence.
They rarely distress over their misfortune,
For pity for the deluded, they do not possess.
The flowers with eyes breathe of bloody dew,
Of seasonal spring and the tingle of the sunny sky,
With beautiful faces and wide eyes, they look at their world,
They wipe the spit off their faces and smile at their fortune.
With their eyes they perceive,
False promises of false forces that spit upon thee,
Bloody rivers made by no maker,
Lies and deception and savage tales of oath fakers.
They swim upon a sea of soil and look to no river,
For comforting whispers etch their existence rather than ghastly shrieks.
They bleed but not blood, they hurt but not kill.
They do not turn this home of flowers into a home of mindless slaves.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
