Oh---
Sever me.
Clever me..
I can See it plain.
The Lies we tell;
Passed down,
Of Hell-
But twist and maim.
The cries of Help;
Well..
We dare not see
Nor change ourselves.
Brainwashing thorough;
Colder and Older
Than the Pain we patch over,
For a Book so old-
With confliction manifold...
And words that comfort only to scold.
Scripted by hands
Long since dead.
....so they Rule us from the Grave,
Instead...
Preaching Hellfire with every deed-
Don't look...
Don't see...
Don't feel...
Don't be...
Think naught
But THESE
Words we carve
On things crueler than stone.
Surrender your Will.
Give up your Soul.
Ohhhh---
Clever control.
And do not weep
As your forfeited tears creep...
You should have known we'd
Make Despair the most fertile Seed.
A form of Control
Of the subtlest strain-
The Twisted Flame.
We hold it inside.
See it burn.
See it writhe.
For why fear Hell
When we're already crispy inside
From all the Lies?
The unresisted Flames rise-
The fisted flame dies.
The 'Once Gentle' Soul
Of the newly-born, shows
How Rhetoric can take hold.
Dampen the Flame
Of Life within-
Surely this
Is the GREATER Sin?!?
The once strong Flame
YOU ARE READING
Book Of Counted Sorrows
PoetryAn exercise in demented Adventure. A Test of ingenious Insanity. Fragile words spewed forth into the abyss of the the electronic medium. Diamonds forged in the coalmines of Memory. *OR......just pages upon pages of crap ;-)...* Only Time and Effort...
