Dark and dank, the charred flesh moans,
Through brittle teeth, with shattered bones,
She sings the sepulcher songs of old.
Sitting fast, his mind a hellish tomb,
Years of torture; observed and unknown,
He thinks of deserts, and the man he knew.
Writhing still in argent salves,
He puts away his childish things,
And dreams of peace- to sleep.
To sleep, to dream, to sing,
To rise in dawns first light,
And rise above the death of night.
YOU ARE READING
Pyrrhic Victory
PoetryThe body of this collection of work is derived from the experiences of my life and the lives of other's that have been effected directly or indirectly by the social conditions of the early twenty-first century in the US, and by extension much of the...
