Worked so hard, killed so many. What is it that you have acheived? Not about the US.
Dips and dives
On the lips of the divine.
Ears perk
To the word,
Listen for a sound
Anything seen
Or heard
Of the Soul.
Mind searches
For the felt.
For the feeling
Of the Winner
Standing upon the fallen.
Shuffles the papers
Runs a finger down the list
Elation
Joy
Jubilation
It's all there,
As the pen hangs poised
And drips with blood.
And no ticks are drawn
On the manuscript.
Why is there nothing?
You've made it.
You are above the world,
A god upon your pyre of bodies.
The triumph of champions
Should light your mortal eyes.
And then,
As the word drizzles and drips
Upon the lips of the divine.
The soul is searched
And a flicker is found
A buried ember,
That's been burning all along
Since the hair of the first
Dead child
Was lit
And the flames of her flesh
Licked your hands
And weighed upon your mind.
And now,
As the word drowns and dies
Upon the lips of the divine,
Nothing is there to hide the fire
That slowly burns away
The meaning of the word.
That fire is uncertainty.
And suddenly your word doesn't mean so much.
Dictator?
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 949 times
Written on 2006-10-04 at 03:51
Tags Politics Russia Communism
Save as a bookmark (requires login)
Write a comment (requires login)
Send as email (requires login)
Print text
The Word
The word rolls,Dips and dives
On the lips of the divine.
Ears perk
To the word,
Listen for a sound
Anything seen
Or heard
Of the Soul.
Mind searches
For the felt.
For the feeling
Of the Winner
Standing upon the fallen.
Shuffles the papers
Runs a finger down the list
Elation
Joy
Jubilation
It's all there,
As the pen hangs poised
And drips with blood.
And no ticks are drawn
On the manuscript.
Why is there nothing?
You've made it.
You are above the world,
A god upon your pyre of bodies.
The triumph of champions
Should light your mortal eyes.
And then,
As the word drizzles and drips
Upon the lips of the divine.
The soul is searched
And a flicker is found
A buried ember,
That's been burning all along
Since the hair of the first
Dead child
Was lit
And the flames of her flesh
Licked your hands
And weighed upon your mind.
And now,
As the word drowns and dies
Upon the lips of the divine,
Nothing is there to hide the fire
That slowly burns away
The meaning of the word.
That fire is uncertainty.
And suddenly your word doesn't mean so much.
Dictator?
Poetry by Tal¿a
Read 949 times
Written on 2006-10-04 at 03:51
Tags Politics Russia Communism
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text|
keith nunes |
