{...clairvoyant visions...}A Poem by Christopher Michael Smithexerpt from "Armageddon's Gate" published in 2005.
Mass graves, in my mind, all that I see.
How much longer until all have the disease? Living in poverty amongst all these fleas. Horrible slaughters; crying down on bruised knees. Killing Mother Nature and all of her trees. Misery crossing all the world's seas. This world is screwed up and we are living in Hell. How much for the soul, I know you would sell. Look at these kids and tell me why are they pale. Gas masks on; afraid of the smell. Plagues all around, in the four corners they dwell. How many infections can make the brain swell? Money is everything that is not clean. Prophetic thoughts becoming clear in dreams. Afraid to speak, afraid of what it means. The sound of torture and millions of screams. Nothing is left, all torn at the seams. Am I awake or asleep walking in these dreams? Power-hungry politicians gnawing on their teeth. Starting wars they cannot complete. A country perplexed with lies and deceit. It is time now to be finally beat. Military too thin, standing all on their feet. Death waiting; it comes in their sleep. Sex and drugs all now are the norm. Like a brief silence just before a storm. Look at all these fiends being born. They are confused, ripped and torn. Lustful life, worshiping porn. They have all felt the prick of addiction's thorn. Families evaporating at wick's end. How many lawsuits are yet to pend? Minds racing, can no longer defend. Everyone is dead, overpowered by sin. Seems such a fad, such a trend. Trying everything not to fit in. Children being raped at the age of four. Facing something everyone tries to ignore. It really hurts being pinned to the floor, Just because a fiend is looking to score. The ones that have died are added to the tour. The ones still living, not living anymore. © 2009 Christopher Michael Smith |
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Added on January 9, 2009AuthorChristopher Michael SmithClinton, NCAboutEgo sum qui sum - 'I am what I am' Poetry is my creative expression here upon this floating ball of dust called Earth. Nothing feels as appeasing as watching a pen glide across a virgin page, watc.. more..Writing
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