She said her name was Metallica,
An exquisite ferric masterpiece; she was
Sent away to the solders,
And they branded her into
Who she became today.
She said her name was Metallica,
And she was a hundred
Thousand mineral years old,
And her roots were torn away from
Her proud, rocky heart.
She said her name was Metallica,
And that each of her atoms craved
A touch from the hand that
Burned and shaped and molded
Her into this disgusting aftertaste.
She said her name was Metallica,
And she sold sanctuary by
The hour, she melted people
And what they stood for;
Because
Metallica
Was
A
Furnace.
YOU ARE READING
Hiraeth
PoesíaHIRAETH- (n.) A homesickness for a place you can never return to, a place which never was. Previously: Songs Of My Lonely Soul. *** A Song Of My Lonely Soul. A Ballad Of My Heart Whole. A Story That Was Never Said. When We Find It To Be Dead. ...
