Delicate Embers of Self-Immolation
Swim my world.
Under shadows havoc cry
I bend this for you, pressing onto paper, a
Caravaggio dawn falling westward.
In madness beauty born, will thee watch the
Dark machine, its gears of blood slipping through the
Eternal art of madness, of war, of silence?
No more
On the rage of things that could have been, will
There ever be, another as
Empty…as me.
Copyright © Mat Ignacio | Year Posted 2023
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem.
Please
Login
to post a comment