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By leamas Date: 2003 Jun 30 Comment on this Work [[2003.06.30.00.31.10392]] |
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The Toppled Hour Glass of Time (A free verse for myself and if you don't like it "frankly Scarlet I don't give a damn"-I could give other movies rebuffs but I'm too tired) A silent wind whispered between the firs, It cried for the long lost, the forgotten dreams that were, The eulogy was simple but defined in sadness, The dance drew those that knew yet had not yet felt. The wind of despair and regret simply flew, Guided by none, unsure of reason or thought It sailed, gently guiding, still hiding it's face Of destruction and malice; demons' joy, Satan's tool. Hate, verbal dismemberment, gritted teeth, were all that were real. Spite and anger dripped; the seething juice. The love of disgust and ridicule. To lower and stomp. Pain was the ally, grief the single friend. Sharp and jagged are the teeth of the "trusted", Ravenous were and are their appetites, self serving and gorging. Ripping, tearing-hiding and devious. Forked tongues. Eyes that pierce, while tears roll. Devils. Lost amongst the damned, hidden in the obvious. Souls opened and for the scrape and tear. Defenseless and weak, floating without crook and hole, Giving in defeat, simple to the claw; unwilling sacrifice. Shadows flee, vision keen, light sure. Unable to hide. Anger mounts with the death-less seconds. Hatred grows and explodes with the thought of what could have been. Anger mounts and grows, life soured. The wind no longer whispers, instead screams of wrongs, Their pathetic stories sing into the sky; only the knowing understand Tears roll and feed the contempt, seers the soul. Blood drips from the bitten lip, the taste of satisfaction. Beams of pure unadulterated, purified hate pierce. Ripping, tearing and severing the ignorant victim. Leaving the dead and maimed to care for them. Until... He realizes there is no point. Its ALL pointless. All of it. Fingers too weak to push the keys, night looks too good. Anger hides. His "real" eyes saw how it was, saw what was real. More importantly they saw what was to come. He has hurt "some" (not you) and is sorry, but guilt can only go to far. The man laughing at him drives him to madness. The shattered mirror. He tears out his hair, rips it to the scalp causing deep dark droplets of blood to stampede down his face. The red rivers forge their own path to merge together at his chin. It must go, all of it. To exhale, to really exhale. To just stop. Tunnels close, and light slips. If only I could tip my hour glass. |