Prayer of Self Pity

If I were but a man

as alive and gruesome

with eyes transfixed

and set in blue stones.

Inside the iris sits

my life, my own translucence

of such hollow tones. 

Memories rendered useless,

left to rot and wallow

amongst the sorrow tombs.

 

I am but a vessell,

as empty as an echo,

void of feeling such

as an artist void of pastels

'cept for blacks and browns.

My mind, my body's crutch

holds up my pathetic bones

alone in empty castles

built in forgotten towns 'tween

light and dark, grey gathers round.

 

Let the light reach me.

Let the light reach me.

Sadness surrounds me whole

while darkness grounds my soul

becoming a soluble substance.

Behold, he who is on fire.

He who is on fire

from the light, reduced

to ashes, weathered lies are

gathered from the worn out tome.

 

Reviews

[Stormy]

masterpiece