The world is dark with all its claws,
it's snarl so deep, oh so loud-
awaiting the blinded to grasp onto.
Cut the throat, take the soul
an empty shell is born;
out of the shadows of the past
afloat with its credo
elucidating the good.
Chanting the name of the wicked,
kneeling to eidolon for faith
in hopes of redemption from the chains.
Knead the monsters with our mitts,
follows impetuously in the eye of the storm
adhered to the affluent illusion.
With nothing but wreckage as its destination.
Then the hearts follow,
the master too decrepit with worn;
teary eyes at it's feet-
rests the one with the insight
seen far too much to quit-
and wailing for the rest.
In a place where abreaction never took place,
safe enough to stay and burn-
in the fire that will cleanse their soul.
The old ghosts as prisoners of their fate
with their struggles painted red
and their hands strangled blue.
Void for a soul and a truant heart
darkness abutting all around.
The world is too dark to see.
Painted a hue too inky to configure
with darker figures rising out of the shadows,
created by the fire ablaze.
Lit across a dozen faces
with nothing but their angst to stop them
from the never-ending void.
Felt from the depths of their being,
and the constant whistling of the wind
brining the voices in.
The world is filled, but the people are empty.
And the irony is lost on me,
for a full word creates a broken human
that takes too many worlds to heal.
~si
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PoetryM O N A C H O P S I S the persistent feeling that you're out of place or don't belong. A collection of poems.
