The Dead
They care not for our guilt,
imagined stains on stonewashed hands,
the ghost blood dripping hushed.
The universe might tilt,
a dormant skew, it's twist demands
the skewered hearts be crushed.
With elegiac lamentation
in forests of marble and crosses,
what more is there to give?
We stake the days of cold damnation,
never, ever cut our losses,
self-vilified we live.
They hold us do the dead
to promises that could not be kept,
nor stand to be fulfilled.
They paint our dream towns red
with jeopardy for we who wept
whereupon their breath was stilled.
We never do enough in dreams
to intercept at the pass
before a life is gone.
We just do what we can, it seems,
it never is our fault, alas,
we live and life goes on.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment
Turn off ads, get more exposure for your poetry, and get more features with a
Premium Membership.
