The battles were only noise,
The incessant taunt of one
So obsessively self secure.
Thankful that I never
Joined the passionate cause
For self destruction.
Patterns shifting simply from memory,
Hopelessly redundant declarations
Of a fathomless trend,
A back bending and breaking
Treacherous line of thinking,
That tends to leave men dead.
My weapon was too heavy to carry
My face streaked with remnants
Of revolution and cold, dishonest
Prophecy (light shining back into my eyes)
"But I have just slain a man."
Dead from smoke jumping,
But only from the rib cage down,
Helicopters stirring dust
Amongst the turmoil
The cold affection of steel
Pressed (wet??) to my neck.
A contest entry
- Darkest of the Darklings by whipped rose.
390 points, ended May 16, 2007, 17 entries
Honorable mention
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Comments
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a good piece, though i thought there was an element of hope in the voice here, a quiet calm which took away from 'the darkest of the dark' a little though the dark imagery is good.
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This piece was a bit troublesome for me. I couldn't seem to end it right. Its rooted in the past, and in part truth, which makes it difficult for me to write. I always do better with pieces straight from my imagination that aren't based in fact.
I really appreciate the comment, most people do not return the favor anymore these days I am finding. I do like your words, and I will soon be dropping by to read more of your stuff.
-S.
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