Scribbles from a word slinger (part two)

Time for a few more scribbles. 

These 3 from the portfolio are some of my more darker workings.

The Body
 Eat away young parasites for soon I will be gone,
 Take away the consciousness so I can do no wrong,
 Make your bed within my corpse for what good is it now,
 A testament to acts of faith that brought this hero down,
 Desecrate these bones which failed to keep this temple strong,
 Devour all that you can eat while feeding time’s still on,
 And now you’ve left me stripped and bare amongst the sacred dust,
 Remains are all but shadows left since morning covered dusk,
 Yet still I am, still to be and still I hope and pray,
 That maybe soon you’ll find away to take these thoughts away.
 
Storm
  As I stand here aware of the storm,
 The virulent clouds awaken the dawn,
 The flames from the skies, lambent like song,
 Throw skeletal shadows that seeds grow upon,
 But this jagged valley produces no fruit,
 The grass does not grow and the trees do not root,
 A paranoid feeling, surreal to the core,
 The path of the righteous can be walked no more,
 I fear I am lost, just a wandering stray,
 With my hands clasped together, I kneel down to pray,
 I pray for Nirvana, escape, a way out,
 Imprisoned by slumber, unable to shout,
 My visions are fading, my voice becomes weak,
 My senses are numbing, my thoughts cannot speak,
 I hear all around me engulfed by the storm,
 But for me it’s decided, there will be no more dawn.
 
The Burial
 With soil in hand I stand here aloft,
 A harmonic exuberance seems to rest soft,
 The chasm of prophecy quiescent in thought,
 It’s own timely eulogy rotting and wrought,
 The intimate dwellings of graves and of souls,
 Surround charnel houses, cursed of old bones,
 The invidious feelings hide sinister pasts,
 Etched deep in shadows never since cast,
 The sorrow lives deep in this garden of souls,
 Amid verses recited in slow sombre tones,
 Tears they have wept in a chastise of hate,
 Falling on seeds of a tyrannous fate,
 Imprisoned by guilt to the rhythm of slaves,
 Remorse and regret, too late to be saved,
 So listen in trance to malevolent screams,
 For when the bell tolls it’s the end of the dream.

Latino777 – It’s our time down here

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Posted on May 23, 2011, in Poetry and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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