The Broken ManA Poem by redhorsHe had an old soul But was born into the new and mystifying age of narcissus. A terrifying age of temperamental delicacy, Where, All the mortals compete For who can win the most treasured accolade- A dead, but still beating heart.
Because his own heart was deemed pure, The mortals used Lies, Greed, Arrogance, Ignorance, And anger, As weapons To try and steal his heart's light, Because they could no longer see theirs Buried beneath the layers of their darkness.
So he locked his heart away Deep, Protected. For he did not want his heart To be destroyed by the demons of this realm And their need to stain other souls Who have not yet been touched By the darkness. Instead of letting them stain his heart He stained his skin- The wings he never had the chance to use He branded onto his back, Raked in with black ink, For one day, He will need them. The halo he bore that never had the chance to shine He burned into his skull, In the shape of scars and perceptive memories. For one day, He will need it- And his halo Will burn as strong and bright As the stars from where he fell from And his wings Will carry him swiftly Into the mystery. © 2018 redhorsReviews
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5 Reviews Added on February 15, 2018 Last Updated on February 17, 2018 Author
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