I do not breathe
Nor do I have any heartbeat
Even so, I own thousands of them
Stored in jars, one by one
They say I'm crazy, tell me what I do is wrong
Yet are those words truthfully spoken?
As they think their knowledge is superior
As they slaughter all that surrounds them
By means of what could they know?
When all they've done has been to corrupt this world's innocence
Hearing my voice has become a rarity
As if struck by lightning, its sound is a signal of calamities, so it is feared and admired.
YOU ARE READING
Tranquilities and calamities
PoetryTranquilities. Calamities. And a shattered mind. Here you'll find such and more, expressed by me in my loneliest and happiest times.
