Sunday, July 29, 2007


Born into a dying world we adopt its dying ways
And hasten death with every day we grasp toward the sky
We scorn our saviours from our birth, our tormentors we praise
and cling to poison, kiss our pain, our very souls deny

Thus we as rotting creatures do descend into the mud
So fit to all our characters this purposeful despair
Though baptized late with water, we were baptized first in blood
Our first words incoherant screams, our last words always prayers

And on these amber days with their honeysuckle songs
We remember that which owns us but forget that which we owe
And cherish our due right to commit nothing but wrongs
And so long to ascend we always fix our fate below

O Purgation! Molten slag! Eternity of fire!
O burning taste of hell at the feet of heaven's gate!
If earth's pain cannot tame our hearts before our lives expire,
can there ever be a man who finds his death comes far too late?

1 comment:

Standifer Evasto Visum said...

My apologies, Sir. "Dolimer" must be a derivative of your own "Dolor" after having read your poem.

It would seem that dark moods prevail (I thought of this at work today).

Perhaps I'll change it to "Dulimer", or "Dulcimer" Gusset.

Nice poem, by the way.