At the edge,
We sat and we wept,
Our hands shook as we hid my eyes,
The world was too much to bear,
And the wind whispers to go,

Bear me a few truths,
When we suppose our life was a black dark whore
And we entagled in its mystic tresses,
And we grew corpulent,
Fed an ever hungry wolf from the pits of our stomach,
Demonic anger waited w/abated breath of fire and brimstone
Release the Man.

Machine brain churning and spewing sorrow, oh ridicule,
we fornicate with vile envy,
Made children of subliminal scruples,
We am mad, depressed,
We burned inside,
We lost, We fucked the angel of the nightsky,
Who came forth in weird paradigm shapes,
And gave birth to colors, and clouds red as furore,

We never wished for birth, consciously,
Apologetically infantile,
Sincerely Senile,
Everything was a fucking mistake,
A dream you are unsure off,

We have to humbly decline this kind invitation,
We cannot belong here.
We rue,

The wind whispers to go.

Poetry by Shahdele Isman
Read 732 times
Written on 2009-08-18 at 14:52

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