Poezja

As the pitter-patter drop of the still black night
Scrapes stealthy across my third-eye
I die, cry, watch the sunrise, inside
What once was under guise, of
A heavenly palace of smiles
Jewels pure
Defiled
 
He comments on the use of eccentric speak
The beak of the duck that can’t keep
Its life for a child so cheap
As to toss crumbs at his stagnant feet
With the coins in trenches so deep
As to bring dark to light
And wolves to sheep
 
We are the soldiers of a pantheon black
Slowly losing luster and so turning back
On to the ways of gray and ancient decay
When thunder-struck wise men lay, not knowing that what they
say
Will kill the child in his father’s hands
Rape the mother in her husband’s hands
And leave the father, the husband…worse