sâmbătă, 15 mai 2010

It's not done

Tis' not a love I feel
Nor a hatred of this way
But a sorrow for life.

For one must take this existence
And be content. One cannot borrow
Another's, for in Ether 'it is not the done thing'.

Now hatred for birthright.
For I have none, and yet
It would be that I see not

What others pretend. A world in
Green flames, souls at a loss for
'It is not the done thing'.

I mentioned a love. It is that love of
Hate, a sorrows love, that comprehension
Dismisses and rapes. And they reek of it.

Pitch white Harpies drink of my bosoms emotion.
Blackened, fallen upon a deep seated
dread that all is not seen in truth.

And no Muse does help me.
Nor a heaving Titan, nor any heathen Beast,
For I am not worthy of them.

The red sky drowns at the horizon
And a blue moon reaches down and
plucks them for the heavens.

It's a deranged feeling, I feel that
I am not realistically ordained.
Not blessed am I with a colored world.

I would wish hat these skyward Harpies
Would leave me, or bury me with them,
Or just let me alone for a day or night to
See the world through eyes that see not what I see.

Any distance under suits me best.
For I may witness through earth
A gray world, and black matted figures
May not witness my hideousness of sight.

But it will not, can not, be. I am alive.

- by Cold

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