The blackest days,
So thick they burned flesh as they past,
Days like these,
Are hidden in the chambers of my heart.
Days of pure acid,
And general despair,
Days of freedom,
Were not found there.
To sleep,
To attempt sublime bliss,
To be in numb paradise once more,
Fails and failed to chill the furnace in my blood.
The answer to the blackest question,
The answer when questioned by pain,
Is in the heart and mind.
As a blind man you must learn to see,
To see the love that love can be.
To feel sensations of empathy,
And realise to live as others you must be.
To unite,
To become a team,
The blackest days cannot defeat.
No nor dwindle the slightest spark,
Of humanity when humanities one at last.
YOU ARE READING
The Crimson Letters
Historische fictieI decided to write poetry about my experiences growing up and the issues I see in the world.
