Curled fists strike the hardened rock face,
wielded by an insane woman who shouldn't exist.
It creates not dust, nor debris,
sliver of broken rock, it grasps.
A loud ringing beckons the desolate forward,
sourced by the sickly confidant.
It begs for mercy.
The wretched, weak to give none,
thick, unforeseen fog enclouds the hopeless.
Mountains a-shifting, creaking floors,
The call of the sun beckons,
blinding a gullible murder.
What caused such an atrocity?
A sickly red pouring forth the skies,
Hot, burning magma seers the ocean floors,
Ripples were sensed by the comforted murder.
A rogue plant drifts in the cosmos,
desperate for the warmth of a star,
grazes against the portals to redemption.
Sudden flashes blinden the murder.
It strays further into the dark cosmos,
Its pursuit: a distant dream.
The murder: angry.
The portals are bitter and broken,
the selfless consumes the corruption,
touching its core.
The hold breaks,
the murder shrieks.
Unbeknownst to him,
the sailor is pushed away.
It weeps for the touch it felt,
It weeps for the hope it lost,
It weeps for the beast carrying no one else's burden.
Dark, desolate emptiness surrounds it,
the murder is lost.
The murder might be murdered.
YOU ARE READING
Rhythms From a Quarter Life
PoetryI will die the very moment this poetry collection is complete, not a moment more, not a moment less. Yet, what worries me is not death but never being able to complete this poetry collection. These are the rhythms resonating from a quarter-life.
