Friday
April 20, 2012
Another poem written a few years ago and rewritten here. I do't know if I should bother with doing this anymore. Not sure I'll ever be pleased with the product from the past even though I take the time to rewrite. But is it enough time? The last post I've already seen a lot of mistakes, typos and I thought I was taking my time... I got to work more on my skill as a writer. Anyway, here's another blast from the past I found on a site I no longer submit to:
The Withering
... and Death
rode upon the back
of an aging
mare. Once black,
her coat now
withered grey,
the bloated
flies of man's decay
a gnawing at
her festered rump.
Within Death's
talon hand
the heart of
man beat red,
its rhythm
racing, its septic
fluids dripping
from
the ancient reaper’s
scythe.
Blind the
moon.
And the
tortured stars,
strangling on
their own deceit,
couldn’t weep
for the child of man
placed gently
at their feet,
a crippled
child supping, sipping,
sucking calmly
at the tainted blood
flowing from
Death’s open palm.
Half devoured
by a starving Death,
this infant’s
flesh filleted to bone,
his guiltless
soul stripped naked
on a cold,
hard rock
offered forth
as alter for
his fruitless
life.
The child,
this precious child
didn’t whimper,
or cry out.
Three times
the knife plunged deep
into his tiny
chest ripping
through the
sternum, lungs, the fragile
thoughts that
innocence possesses.
With those
three thrusts of steel,
salvation’s
hope which mankind clung to,
longed for,
shriveled-up into a black hard stone.
Man’s demise
tapped lightly at the door.
...and Death rode
past
on his
swayback steed,
her shrunken
flanks
bobbing up
and down
as she
pranced beyond
the piercing
screams
echoing from
mankind's grave:
"Can you help me, sir? Please,
help us, sir...? Please?"
But the horse
cared nothing
for such
selfish pleading
and Death— it's
sad to say—
is extremely hard
of hearing.
rrw 9-12-09 (rewrites
4-20-12)
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