Oh how I longed to be saved
To have worn fingers cracked from use whisper over lips abused
To feel foreign pulse below as above
And not own a worry about
For the dark is weary and I am young
Oh how I longed to be saved
With serenades and lullabies that hang so heavy on throats too caged
With pathos for such laughter and sorrow on no page
That I am overcome
For me I am no more of sun
Oh how I longed to be saved
And hear their gentle melancholy tunes in morning
And know that you are near to take me so away
That pain exists temporally in flightless rage
For black in night one can't bear
Oh how I longed to be saved
To enter gates of whitest light and blind such memories of my plight
To smell those grasses far too green
And finally find some peace
For heroes chant, so I can hear
Oh how I longed to be saved
Instead of waking in sticky sweat and bile plastered on quaking neck
Oh how I longed to be saved
Instead of knowing what comes next
That of hate and pity and endless quest
Oh how I longed and longing is all I'll get
For my savior is one detest, she wakes in vomit and murky rest
YOU ARE READING
March of the Flowers
PoetryOne by one, we march. We march. Our branches tired. Our leaves are wearied. March of the Flowers is a collection of poetry
