The Trumpeter

This is a poem made of two other poems, Redemption, and I can Still. It's massive, so be wary of a long trip with this one, but I'm sure you'll enjoy it. I put lots of effort into it after all

I spit this wicked sickness, hoping in death to be the victor, among the other b*****s, although my breath might be a whisper

 

I am the calm before the storm

I am the trumpeter’s horn

I am the bomb before the war

I am the scar upon on the world

I am the dead and damaged upon us, the ravaging unfurled, while the rabbits hide inside their burrow and the abbots sit inside their salt circle, hoping for a miracle, ears filled with clay that will never hear at all

I am the savage soldiers tattered, worn

 

I am the calm before the storm

I am the honest martyr, the trumpeter’s horn

I am the carnival of horror

The fear, the horde ignored outside your door

 I am the terror that’s been newly born

 

I am the calm before the storm, the lightning before it pours

I am the sound of the silence, the cutting violence in the mind within your human core

I am the four horsemen’s’ cry of scorn the folklore reborn in the morn waiting to hush us away in the dusty dusk of grey about to be known upon us the black skies of human demise will rise like the bones beneath the stones, the tomes waiting to be wrote known as the railroad throne of time's of old that connected this world

 

For the times so bold that they stood alone before the end of urban serenity, mentoring menacingly doesn’t matter, that means we've learned nothing, becoming our own enemies through the centuries, whipping the backs of others, we live in luxury, our indulgence our only sustenance,

 

I stay slumbering in your subconscious, watching the same vomit, has my angelic honesty been disregarded?

 

I am the prison within your living gore, the instrument of war inside your soul, the hole within your heart, the woe within the dark, the hatred that became an art, the machine gun mark of it all across your mind, shouting down lives with a warped ridge of lies a line to hide behind in the crossfire of the blind

 

I am the correction for your infection, effortless rejection of your imperfections, inflicted in your influence and influenza resentment a testament to your own wretchedness, wrestling with effortless false equalists who show nothing but Hippocratic sociopathic weakness, in a world never resting, frequently wrestling within itself, ceaselessly peaceless

 

I may be a relic of malice, forgotten and softened, no longer hellish, but remember me, continue dismembering everything you’ve forgotten, and I can end your dream of fragile humanity, turn it from ripe to rotten

 

I may be rusted metal now, but sharpen me, oil me, and I can still cut

 

I wish to bath in flesh and drink the blood of the resistance, the liquid ichor of the godless monsters the wicker men as the fire flickers in the darkness and the sparks spit spreads through the thicket like lead bullets, and liquid courage through your force fed mouths ready to harvest and harness the heartless splurging jargon of war you horde behind the curtain of your soul

 

Let the fire soar into your world and explore your every crevasse of your cities with an encore forebodingly exploding catching wind like a spore to soar in the murder spree and feed you weeds the fertilizer of fire you desire, war at your front door, light the gore with your lighter so we can all burn brighter

 

I’ll be the monster you wish I was, not for me, but for you

 

My humility and humanity questions me, something you never had, human beings can never truly see, it doesn’t matter if you’re not a fan of me, when you continue to demand to bleed, picking at each other’s scabs, how can you expect not to be wounded, I just assumed that you wanted this, why are you so sad?

 

It tortures me, this misery, takes away my sanity to sow these seeds, I grew these trees only to cut down humanity, but can you not see your need of a trumpeter, that you are deserving to feel my thunder? To be down and under and slumber as just any another blunder? To be considered a monster? To foster your hate and see the pandemonium you make in your wake, just what misfortune and horror you create?

 

Makes me wonder how much people are paid to play this game of charades, and why they waste their life away

 

The murderous means obscenely direct and effective

 

I may be on my last legs, but maul me, shape me, poison me, sedate me, and I can still live life will not escape me

 

The hallow cost of another holocaust, to rust in the cuts and rot in the flesh of the frost lost under the mossy hill, chilled, the bones still live after losing their will, for bonds are killed to give, and death is to be lived with, forgiveness for a future to fill with happiness, progress, commitment, love, and amusement

 

Look at this allusion

 

Take away from my nation, fashion a new form of elation from my bones, and everything I’ve ever known, play with me in your game like a toy until you break me, and then leave me alone in an empty unloving home, and I can still stand above it all, alone

 

Until the lies say goodbyes, the lice, the leeches will breach my earth, my mind and live within my insides, mining away

 

Eating at my yesterday’s

 

Disappear in the preaching fear feasting on the yeast of passing dismembered years like laughing at the tears that spun unwoven chosen to yearn to disappear in the shattered mirror of tomorrows oceans

 

Death and life, suffering and happiness, both are needed, so feed it into the minds and down the spines of the people, for good and evil are the same, a human slain is a human slain

On either side, divine, alive, blinded behind our eyes, our lies, and our lives, equal, is it futile to not see how fettle a human being can be?

 

Believe me, we are shaped to bleed, we will always be cruel, we will continue to live as fools, mules to something greater, our own hatred, blindly spit on our creator, made a player in this game, neither of only love or hatred

 

We are all equally beast, inside beneath the meat, the kiss, the lips, these wide smiles are rows of teeth, behind the different beliefs, savagery is its own peace, within the mouldy yeast comes the cleanest pieces of reason, for we are all monsters, a different breed, a different bleed, and different needs, and have a taste for different treats, but a similarly unforgiving synonym of slightly different beings

 

But our feast on depravity and naivety is really all the same, we are struggle stained, everyone is insane, untamed, crazed, humanity is to blame for our shared spite, might we be maimed because no one is the same, we differ, but with our difference of limericks seems to  holds such shame, fighting each other, like you think that being unique is without gain

And within every name is a indifferent game, a prison of ambition, a chain, a different way to feel pain

And through the suffering, every god's bane that has still been maimed can gain something beautiful you can’t have any other way

 

To suffer is to feel

 

Pain is nothing if not real

 

Sometimes people don’t get what they deserve, but occasionally they do get what they ask for, I got what I wanted, my own disaster, my unhappy ever-after, I continue to try to plaster it back together whether or not trying through the rough will make it any better

 

Abandon me, attack me with your unsatisfactory unanimous savagery, but I can still continue managing 

 

Sooth me with the brutality of broken, and my lips will speak hollowly of insanity within reality I lived through before, and I have already spoken

 

Heal my wounds over time, cherish my soul with rhymes, never surrender forever, keep hoping, fight until the ending, openly empty, free me of my being, and I can still bleed

 

There is no shame in going out in a blaze, in a December of embers

 

For to be erased, taken away, shamelessly blessed by the water and rain, you must first be named, for the example, the person, you’ve became, before the arson, unpardoned, we remain heartless killers, and are just as plainly part of the slain

 

Kill me, rape me, and I can still hate, if I pass away, after my last day, this judgement is one that you cannot escape

 

Because to be taken down to the wire is to truly inspire

 

To perspire to ashes is the result of a bonfire higher than the words of some admired liar, to give hope in this harsh world, sometimes yours has to die here

 

To be hated is to love, to be buried in the mud is to carry yourself above, and to be shot dead from a gun, incinerated by the sun, to be forgotten after love, is more than enough

 

It’s to have been someone

 

And if art is an explosion of emotion, in one moment, brokenly golden, pricelessly stolen

One’s demise is to be realized, materialized, personified, inside the grieving eyes of a world stigmatized, but open, hoping, coping

 

How could death, the last moment of the newly awoken, be less potent, than the single loathing breath of an unaffected neglected life unspoken

 

All from the trumpeter’s ugliness, one note, one blow before the end of the known, turning a gold world of lovely somethings back into the nothingness that humanity could never truly hold

 

We fight ourselves purposely, find others unworthy, not deserving, neither getting or giving any courtesy other than hurting, why does this humanity play this game dirty?

 

Why we hate rather than try to feel what’s real for others is what truly worries me

 

God sees all

 

This world is a dead end on the road, stopping time’s flow, the trumpeter’s horn, the four horsemen’s scorn in the apocalypse that dethroned humanities own, tell us we don’t deserve a home, left to fester only lonely, chosen to be unwoven, beautifully broken, hopelessly open, alone and unspoken, death is so gorgeous

 

When I come, I won’t ask for your forgiveness or your willingness, if you truly wish for this, and can’t cure your own sickness then I will medicate you, eradicate your suffering, bury your fabricated forthcomings

 

When your good deeds are done and dissolve into nothing, and you cannot resolve your faults, I will take the blame for you, covering the earth in the gentle hands of God

 

For while I do, do not hate me, because I only brew the medicine to soothe the pain, soften the claims of humanity, and take away their hate and replace it with sanity

 

Until that day, when there is no other way, and we must meet face to face

 

I am the king of fiends, the trumpeter reborn

I am your daily canopy of dreams, waiting in disbelief for the moment, torn

Another jagged, ragged piece, of the hopeful to be silenced given peace by my noble godly horn

I am the bomb upon the world

I am ever merciful

I am a universal cleanse

Whom God sends before the end

 

I am the calm before the storm, the lightning before it pours

The only form to stand before the dusk amongst the sand the final morn at hand

Waiting burning in the darkness, a spark that’s ignorantly flickering madly, like a candle in the wind

 

Until the day we meet amended, fabled memories of everything, my friends, I’ll kiss away the struggling, I bid you adieu until the day that fate begins anew again, and life and truth emerges from your eulogy, let the past’s youth feed the frenzy of eternity, and time will move on

 

Let the fire of life realize to reignite and burn with me until the last embers are gone

And the when world listens in fear of their own tyranny once more for the sincerity of God 

They shall hear The Trumpeter’s song

 

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.

Reviews

[Jackie]

You have sooooo many words and ways to describe. I was am an have always been impressed by your writing.

[LazerRays]

Nice work Jack, I do like the intense "I am" and each description. It reminds me of the creepypasta "the Russian sleep experiment" at the end where the deformed demented human says "I am the darkness under your bed, I am you, I am wha the world forgotten blah blah blah etc" it has that dangerous aurora. The only thing is indenting, paragraphing and dhaping this poem :D other than that it's fantastic!

[wordman]

a great description of the inner person with in,you put a lot into it ,it is ovious

[Stacy Purvis]

Incredible. From the first line all the way to the end, incredible. Packed with scrumptious morsels it almost reads like the lyrics to a rap song and I LOVE it. EXCELLENT.

[.]

Well, there's a big "WOW!" for you and the poem! The mixture of the two poems gives out a double "Wow" poem. "the hole within your heart, the woe within the dark, the hatred that became an art" this is my favorite line in this poem. And the last line "They shall hear The Trumpeter’s song" is really really good. And the poem is so long... Readers can enjoy this for long. And I also liked this poem because it was long.
So, greatly written poem.
Thanks and Good luck! As always... 😉

[.]

And... I would like to publish it on our website with your permission. I forgot to add. 😅

[R.J Calzonetti (SinisterPotatoe)]

Feel free to add any poem to your website, I’m honoured to have that chance. I’m really happy you enjoyed the poem and like that it’s long. I wasn’t sure if people would enjoy it as much as the shorter ones, so I’m releived to hear that’s not the case. Thank you for the review, I really appreciate your kind words!