Falling beauty
Soaring to Earth,
Pale and immaculate
With a rush of grim fate
This wintery touch
Of fate ill
And purity, so long forgotten
This wasteland Artic,
Blanketed by sheets of barren ice
A pulse beats within,
A sound so innocent
This moment of beauty unheard
Interrupted by
A red dawn, shining down
Upon a bled out corpse
Staining the snow scarlet
Watching for what it knows
Will soon come
Miles and miles south
Silence is broken,
Fragmented into dissonance:
A sharp crack pierces existence
As a whole
It cannot be repaired
A stain upon all that is
The blackest anomaly,
And the inevitable begins
The cry
Of our raped mother
Rings out
And all that is wordly weeps
All that is divine falls silent,
Waiting in shame
For it's creations
The sweetest of blood
Runs down the precipice
Racing to the core
So black and blue
Far in the catacombs long lost
To this day
A woman stands bent, crippled
In her forge
Yet still working
Molding a chain of tragedy and fianlity
A tear falls down her withered visage
It cannot be broken
It cannot be broken
The wailing of this beautiful world
Beckons out once more
A personification
Of sorrow, Of suffering
Of the afflicted
Of the decaying
Of the lost,
Of the dying young,
And cracks pierce this innocent life once more
The blood runs faster, colder
Across a land of white
From within
The depths of light and darkness resloved,
Aceldama emerges
Shrieking of the death of innocence
The Earth wails no more
Aceldama brings silence
And at his hand
The core withers away
The genocide of the faithless is complete
Author notes
I deeply apologize to those who are fans of my work. I have been absent fromt this site for over six moths. This began with my being grounded for three months, which ultimately pooved to be only two. Afterwords, I made some changes to my life. I went away for awhile. I had new exeriences. It sounds very cliche to me, but, for the first time in a very long time I was happy. Yet sadness and depression have always been the fuel behind my writing. My metphorical pool of inspiration was drained. As screwed up as it is, as guilty as I feel, It is a comfort in a way to feel this suffocating hurt again. I wish there was no reason for me to feel so, but that's how it is. Yes, I still yearn to be rid of this...depression, but it just doesn't work that way. And so once more, I write.
This is nowhere near the caliber of my previous poetry. It is merely a device to reintroduce myself to poetry. I have been writing stories for a month or two now, but this is my first venture back in poetry.
For those of you who misunderstand or need context, this is a metaphorical comparison of self-mutilation through cutting to the destruction of this planet, which is in many ways our body, by those who live upon it.
Again, this is nowhere near my full potential. If you have not, I also encourage you to read my other poems. Please review though, and hold nothing back. I thank you, and I am working on another poem which I hope to get to you in the next two weeks.
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