The Gripper

Moved from my old account: A poem written after being influenced by the novel "Lord of the Flies," by William Golding. It relates back to myself, not just the book's characters.

Now I lay me down to sleep.

You were never mine to keep.

Buckled under from the weight,

Of your deadly, hellish hate.

 

Reaching out to grip the hand

That runs through fingers like the sand

Of beaches bleached and ocean’s blue

The chains that hold me hold you, too.

 

Of smoking sparkles and their murky haze

The death-warrant signed by the light of their gaze.

The reds, the greens, the yellow and black

Stand for defiance, quelled with a quick crack.

 

The torturer, he hits me.

The executioner whips me.

I’ve been broken down.

The haters still hate me,

Debaters berate me.

And here I’m still around.

But the weaker have fled me,

They’ve all died and left me.

I’ve been all alone.

But friends still behest me

To set all the dead free

So my soul can attempt to atone.

 

Yet there’s no hope for the tired,

And less for the worn.

Screaming at faces filled with nothing but scorn.

My lips crack a small smile

One fit for a clown;

I’m the kicker, I’m the gripper,

And I’m the thorn in his crown.