THE BEAUTIFUL ONES ARE LOST

In the darkest hour of time

When men dangle with their grumping wine

Calling at the messiah

With a dreadful language of desire

Wrecking the hope of grace

With their jumpy sleazy untie trouser

Spitting curses, combining forces to their face

Speaking in tongue, in the dining of drunkard

Squatting, head’s down, face up to the days

In return for their forthcoming combat

With the spirit that rebuke this men of age

Aarghing, cracking, cooking their un-foreseen future

Strolling their lives with un-premeditated torture

Shattering, striking, hanging their helpless children

Hopeless, tactless, useless to their kindred

In death their stimulus succumb to life

So late their children up with kite

As they know not when slaughtered them with knife

 

The Beautiful ones are lost

Author's Note

I need your review on this poem please.

Reviews

[Dead]

This is really good... its really dark but really good

[Alex]

Thanks #Lost Rose#