Upon his Grave...
Shattered nails tear at reddened soil,
Tears boil amidst a scene of dormant turmoil --
Black as oil his tattered coat flaps at his neck,
Worn hands batter, splatter as his skin begins to fleck;
Smatterings of man burst forth from the rare grass,
Knuckles crimson upon the softly cracking glass.
Cackled laughter trickles through clenched teeth,
Steaming shoulders seethe as he bites into the wreath.
His figure -- dark as the night -- pressed against the wall,
Heart pounding the sight; no one will answer his call.
Destined to fall below the loose ties of man,
Embracing the cool beneath the soil and sand.
There he will sit aside his lost love,
As family are cast aside from above:
Peering down, hiding their tears; smiling quietly,
Yelling upwards he WILL defile them defiantly.
.
See a sea of irreplaceable variety,
Human society corrupt within its anxiety.
Piety draped over error, terror, and societal stretcher-bearer,
As the masses realize that the individual is rarer...
Rarer in terms of feeling, dreaming, emotional revealing,
Merely being instigates his volatile congealing.
.
.
His heart is reeling as the cool embrace arrives,
The pounding of his headache subsides...
.
.
.
Beaming through reddened eyes, and familial lies,
A father sat upon the grave in which his son abides.
...I'm back...
Death Was Chosen
Live Your Life
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