Smoke clouds rising like no prayer.
Battlegrounds of thoughts in slaughtered pain.
No blood, just opportunity falling as rain.
The darkened heart speaks a riddle.
To find oneself there in the middle,
battle for reason being lost at present,
never knowing what is meant.
The darkened voice in hoarse tones announced,
"death has come" the sound pronounced.
Everywhere the fallen are my soul,
the battle my essence stole.
The darkened vision through peril sees,
on mountains cold and through the breeze,
my body torn on bloody ground,
I died here, to this place bound.
The darkened mystery now clear,
through my chest the still and dirty spear,
no penance paid, just the solace in the stillness,
no apparent malediction or illness.
The darkened memory of it all,
I share with you as I fall,
I hear no choir, trumpet, or bell...
I feel nothing on my way to hell.
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For Grace
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1 comment:
Thanks Grace. Without you, the realization that a poem was missing from the available repertoire could not be realized.
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