The Bosom of Darkness
My journey is beyond the sun,
there my bleeding soul will be
console in the bosoms of
darkness.
My mood suffocated from the
wake of dawn until dust,
because
my oxygen comes from within
the
depths of the glorious night.
The thirst of my tongue can
only
be quench by the tears of the
sun, or by the glowing blood
of
the moonlight.
For the manifestation of my
sins
I hope not to feel contrite.
I rather my bitter blood ooze
from my tender flesh, than to
give refuge to
tears in my sight.
I further submerge deeper in
agony but
I'll not cry.
I rather slit my wrist and bleed
my
sadness until I feel delight.
Only souls of the gutter,
souls of the slum,
souls of oppression,
and souls of hardship
speaks and Comprehend the
language
of my nocturnal tongue.
Copyright © Adrian Robinson | Year Posted 2014
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