Tuesday, March 29, 2011

All the eyes are empty, I fear.

I call you out.

I call you shivering,
trembling, liquid eyes and fearful
surrender, your volcanic and sacrificial
salute to everything but soul, your spittle
as the Sheep call Sheep, blind to their own,
ewe and your schisms, me in your prisons, 20
something and keen, a sharpened dullard whose
only talents lie in the cutting of your perceived enemies
your betters, your worse, then thirty on your loss apparent
dark brambles and roads you'll never visit, oh yes dear, weep you creep
it's deep that sheepish sleep you recall, perhaps the dark rings and dry dizzying
demands you dragged down in the dirty dastardly depths of what you once
believed in but could never quite form, worm, your well worn scorn just bars now
behind which you'll rust rouge those iron tears - the last you'll ever cry before those wry
disappointment diamonds desert you in The Change, and the face becomes a shadow, turns
into star, fades white, then yellow to green, green to red,
red to a bruised

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