A Fallen AngelA Poem by Luther
I sit alone in this bleak land, The cold sun filtering through my skin. I look through the back of my glasshouse, Hidden from the world. I face the grey wall. The grey wall. The centre pane lies in shards upon the earth. I see my distorted reflection in the silvery glare. I pick the pieces up One By One And sigh with delight as my icy hands contract. The glass drops to the ground as golden sand Which melts into puss as it touches my corpse. I have fresh air (for the broken pane allows it) But each time a breath is drawn My lungs ache with the penetration, My eyes flood with hot, milky juices When the blood flows up to arouse them, My feet gasp and sigh and moan As they tread upon her lusty venom. The thorn of the rose. The poison of the fang. The heel of the hero. The words of the w***e. Alone I sit in this barren landscape, In the house of glass they cannot see. I do not move, just stare at the wall of grey. Mossy and T U M B L I N G I will not look out the front. Towards the sunshine, Towards peace, Towards what’s known as paradise, For the past controls me. The past dictates my present, My future, My eternity, For I succumbed to desire. I became the truth. I took the rose from the child’s garden And was bitten by the thorn. They turned my love to lilies. Now I sit in the house of fallen angels, Alone With pain and constant hurt. Contorted with agony. Wallowing in bliss. Feeling in heaven. Sitting in hell. Alone In despair As it should be.
© 2010 LutherReviews
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3 Reviews Added on June 17, 2009 Last Updated on January 25, 2010 |