The blinking at a new light,
The blindfold unknowingly put on
Eyes made to be blind.
The cry of a newborn child,
The clanking of steel chains,
Echo, reverberate through eternity,
Origins rooted at the same time.
If living is a crime, then what is the punishment for such?
Spiraling out of control, the fettered world
Fed with the gruel of hope and dreams
Gasps for impossibility, clamped wrists sore and tired
With holding up itself and its future.
Listening to what the sightless can behold
And understand… What can be done
When what is wishfully rejected exists?
It can’t… it can’t…it can’t…
The utopia that is said to be so,
The hell nobody wants to – can – see,
Entwined like the vines of a briar rose
Prickling at the fingers of innocent children.
The blood falling like unconscious tears,
The nonexistent bandage and the foreshadowed death
In chains, locked away,
Is played over and over and over in vain.
If living is a sin, then what is the purification for such?
The tired heart slowly burned at the stake
Over time lets out a wonderful scent in the coliseum,
Drawing in the hopeless unsure of their own nature.
The clattering of their shackles sings
As they run towards what seems like forwards
When it really is just another like them.
Tasting the ignorance of a brethren’s remains
To – futilely – understand… What can be done
When what is wishfully rejected exists?
It can’t…it can’t…it can’t…
The soft requiem by hired choirs,
The thump of the coffin touching the ground;
Everything falls into place
Like the fragments of chain finally gone.
The cleaning of the rusted links,
The transfer of a society’s sightless world
Echo, reverberate through eternity,
Origins rooted at the same time.
 Inkset Memorii · Mon Feb 01, 2010 @ 06:55am · 0 Comments |
