J
julius3_3
Guest
I would also like some suggestions for a title:
Who is assigned the
Duty of retrieving shards of
Shattered identity strewn
About Life’s stained floorboard
Without thought,
Without care?
What miracle doctor shall
Present himself to restore
A heart, not broken, but
With armor fissured to impotence?
A world of glass and mirrors
Tumbles to complete the mayhem
Extant now in the realm
Where gods and angels dare not roam:
A land of girded marble
And trees whipped bare.
A back bowed past a
Creaking tolerance trudges
Down roads bearing unlit torches;
Pausing only moments at
Each successive intersection
Leading to only more questions.
Hope remains an airy burden whose
Heat bores down on shoulders
Of a weary mind—
Remains winging out of touch,
Tickling at fingertips,
Tormenting the needy.
A fighter, born and made
In and of his own principles,
Slouches uncertain as to maintain
The fight.
No tears mar the face
Tinctured in sun and blood,
But overflow the hole
He once relied on as home.
Poets, even blind ones,
Construct pretty words
To sustain vision;
When shadows arrest eyes
And imprison them in visualizations
Of their own imagination,
What enlightened sight could cure such ails?
Is my battle worth believing,
Or should my marbles
Plant themselves wherever
They may happen to land?
Who is assigned the
Duty of retrieving shards of
Shattered identity strewn
About Life’s stained floorboard
Without thought,
Without care?
What miracle doctor shall
Present himself to restore
A heart, not broken, but
With armor fissured to impotence?
A world of glass and mirrors
Tumbles to complete the mayhem
Extant now in the realm
Where gods and angels dare not roam:
A land of girded marble
And trees whipped bare.
A back bowed past a
Creaking tolerance trudges
Down roads bearing unlit torches;
Pausing only moments at
Each successive intersection
Leading to only more questions.
Hope remains an airy burden whose
Heat bores down on shoulders
Of a weary mind—
Remains winging out of touch,
Tickling at fingertips,
Tormenting the needy.
A fighter, born and made
In and of his own principles,
Slouches uncertain as to maintain
The fight.
No tears mar the face
Tinctured in sun and blood,
But overflow the hole
He once relied on as home.
Poets, even blind ones,
Construct pretty words
To sustain vision;
When shadows arrest eyes
And imprison them in visualizations
Of their own imagination,
What enlightened sight could cure such ails?
Is my battle worth believing,
Or should my marbles
Plant themselves wherever
They may happen to land?