Post by Sheila Widdershins on Feb 21, 2007 14:01:44 GMT -1
Doom
I have no patience for the art of
whiling out your masochist cause,
you may feel needy to this dark
but I take not a pause
in stripping myself of your ruin,
leaving your place barren and foreign,
empty for your years so passing;
passing by my very name…
the writing says the same—
but the meaning has changed
every ending circles about in despair,
each with a fresh and bitter layer
the click of the lock enticingly involving me
in the playing out of this sweet fantasy
but you ruin the illusion,
as says your strange name…
you leave all around you in confusion,
and you search for your pain…
have I walked away,
or has it been the other?
your twinges effect me not at all
your strangeness is a mere drawl
to my resounded ears…
I go to my soup, dear
and I drink deep betwixt my noodles
the befuddling phenomenon
of ignoring your dark splendor
each chime riddling every munch—
the heart of living independent calls…
to the end of every year, day in a month—
so I can endanger your fall…
to come crashing instead of gently landing
in the peril of doom hanging,
so the darkness you sought comes scything
through your pain and emotions writhing, yes
here it is for you… I know you seek it
I just couldn’t believe it… in the thunderous
black, comes a soft, muted moment
where a small orb appears in the shade of orange
and as this last light goes out,
the world explodes in sound
making the trembling ground heave under
your unsteady feet, the acid showers usurp your
consciousness in a silver gleam
the hungry poisonous stream
upon it floating the shattered remnants
of your every dream…
This is the image of your doom,
I believe…
I have no patience for the art of
whiling out your masochist cause,
you may feel needy to this dark
but I take not a pause
in stripping myself of your ruin,
leaving your place barren and foreign,
empty for your years so passing;
passing by my very name…
the writing says the same—
but the meaning has changed
every ending circles about in despair,
each with a fresh and bitter layer
the click of the lock enticingly involving me
in the playing out of this sweet fantasy
but you ruin the illusion,
as says your strange name…
you leave all around you in confusion,
and you search for your pain…
have I walked away,
or has it been the other?
your twinges effect me not at all
your strangeness is a mere drawl
to my resounded ears…
I go to my soup, dear
and I drink deep betwixt my noodles
the befuddling phenomenon
of ignoring your dark splendor
each chime riddling every munch—
the heart of living independent calls…
to the end of every year, day in a month—
so I can endanger your fall…
to come crashing instead of gently landing
in the peril of doom hanging,
so the darkness you sought comes scything
through your pain and emotions writhing, yes
here it is for you… I know you seek it
I just couldn’t believe it… in the thunderous
black, comes a soft, muted moment
where a small orb appears in the shade of orange
and as this last light goes out,
the world explodes in sound
making the trembling ground heave under
your unsteady feet, the acid showers usurp your
consciousness in a silver gleam
the hungry poisonous stream
upon it floating the shattered remnants
of your every dream…
This is the image of your doom,
I believe…
December 14, 2006