Sunday, April 15, 2012

A poem of past pain

Dear child in your sickness
you squall and don't understand
But where does it lead
when you finally become a man

Strike down the rage
it will go when we're bones
Answers don't come so
Rage against those enthroned

Give her heart a turn
And your safe, so you call it home
except wide eye mornings
where nothing fits in as shone

Drive to lands in black and white
Where the built decays glorious
And your past lifts up
Memories sung up in Chorus

Turn off the machines
them dead but giving life
All coming back cool
swollen; hurts like a knife

Failed filtration more time
we'll need next run
Shallowed breathing blood
This isn't any fun

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