Poem-A-Day: Day 229

Self Consultations

In the shocked scene of my open wounds
I see banners waving from slowly moving corpses;
crawling slug-like apparitions
haunting the world I’ve grown,
the world I’ve fostered since youth
to become the world
that I would someday reside within.

Yet, I see that world
teeming with the dead of a million faces,
screaming in unison under the banner of heaven
that tries in a desperate attempt
to cloud a soul so black with oil and tar,
that light has given up all hope,
and merely waits for an opportune time
to one day breach the gates of hell
and finally abscond the fellowship
that has lost its way among the lifelike.

The shock and awe at such horrible glory
pumps the blood cold, and violent,
in churning waves through the canals
that adorn a childlike innocence,
sinful and mischievous in a simple way,
and the world spills quiet maniacal
up from the scene that mocks,
bursting red blues into my hollow waiting fingers
cupped in the shape of a bowl,
begging for more than my own ideas think of me.