Elysium Blood
Stone masks,
hung with the withered wreath of perception,
a God of thorns,
words lost in the haze of greed;
their eyes are sculptures of time’s memorial view.
Jerking silhouettes of fire’s dance,
circling the flames in time,
new music from a dying star,
rips away the mask,
a face in hand;
waved in firmament contempt.
Facade’s expression,
writhing in the fingers of vice,
held aloft in offering,
no blooded lamb of sacrifice,
we bleed our tears for the modern Gods,
drawing flint knives across the throat of clocks,
hour glass gore spills at the feet of Elysium,
behold the timeless progeny,
children of Dystopia’s tears;
the legacy of our war.
©David Nickle Read
All Rights Reserved By The Author
Copyright © David Nickle Read | Year Posted 2015
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