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Literature Text
What could be worse then life but death itself.
Oh how poets waste pretty words on what is simply, irrevocately the end.
They speak dreams, emboldered by hope they spread viral lies, lies that death is the beginning.
Lies and falsehoods that inturn lead to the end.
Oh foolish poets whose hearts live on dreams.
You do not walk a stairway of clouds, your words do not heal.
Open your eyes to the blood crusted dirt under your toes.
Let your fingers feel the polluted air, not the flying rose petals you wish were there.
Sing your sad, pitiful ballads of a new life, but you wont snare me with your cunning lies.
Oh you shall not snare me.
Oh how poets waste pretty words on what is simply, irrevocately the end.
They speak dreams, emboldered by hope they spread viral lies, lies that death is the beginning.
Lies and falsehoods that inturn lead to the end.
Oh foolish poets whose hearts live on dreams.
You do not walk a stairway of clouds, your words do not heal.
Open your eyes to the blood crusted dirt under your toes.
Let your fingers feel the polluted air, not the flying rose petals you wish were there.
Sing your sad, pitiful ballads of a new life, but you wont snare me with your cunning lies.
Oh you shall not snare me.
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I was thinking about how ancient poets used to use their words to speak of death and life. This just sort of came from that I suppose.
(c) Me
(c) Me
© 2011 - 2024 silent-tiger-shadow
Comments2
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Wow, that's sad. I must say I do not see death in either of those lights. I do not want to die, and yet I know the life I foolishly cling to now is but nothing compared to what awaits. Interesting, powerful, emotional images, regardless of my different position on the subject, marred by only I think 2 spelling errors.