Broken shards on her
Like a shattered sawblade
Stuck deep in her body
Deep enough to reach beyond
And hurt her "was, is and will be"
Yet she chooses the light reflected on her
Instead of her mutilated image
Glass on me , but-
Am I a sculpture in glass?
delicate to touch
Fractured just from the fragility
Or molten sand poured on skin
Like a bandaid
Covering my burned skin
Fragile or Masked
Wounded or not
I may never know
Cause my glass never allowed me
To see myself as a whole
Saw meets me
For its reflection to see
Shards may dig her flesh
But the beauty in flesh still clear
She hugs me-
It hurts to share the shards
Like spears impaling both of us
For once pain was not only hers
For once I had real glass to blame
I fear of the verse sometimes
It is like you activate a diver
That goes to the deepest caves
What I have drowned
Mutilated
Muted
In the course of time
What if the current is too much
And diving
I can not find my way back.
The tapestry of the indigo sky,
weaved with lattice of silver cloud,
merges with the still sea in the blues.
The dislodged boulders of cognitive debris
strewn away from the waterfront of desire,
the broken dreams epitomized.
The anchorless empty boat
drifts away from the shore of longing,
harboured by desolation,
lodged lonesome in the sanctuary
of the rocky ledge of fortitude.
In the ruins of my splintered heart,
I listen to the voice of the anguished soul,
the mutilated construct of recluse precinct,
encasing the stifling loneliness of poignant prison
where the psyche languishes relentless
within invincible travail,
negating the hope perspective
in the clutch of mental affliction.
The cauldron of dissonance,
remote from the rhythm of life,
its void filled with drops of depression in adagio.
My dormant desires are demolished,
the malleable mind yields to nostalgic purport,
melancholy swathes the remnant yearning.
Inspired by Melancholy, Edvard Munch.
The demons that surround
On a blasting rampage have gone
Cutting to the root in paradise gardens
Both shrubs and trees, beloved friends and kin
Growing out of nature’s blessed ground
Killed or mutilated beyond repair
By their raging unrepented mortal sin
Plant voices I hear crying out in despair
Souls now buried deep underground within
Beauty and truth they must kill
The Demiurge must reign against God’s will
Revolt, return to God’s garden of love
Let life’s divine spark shine out from you above
Into the garden over the buried ruined souls
In ground where peace and love are the garden’s goals
And if while walking you encounter
These slanderous defamatory demons
God’s angels will hide you under their wing
And you will be protected by the praises
And the songs of thanksgiving that they sing
In God’s own humane world time often comes
when life is mutilated by despicable instincts,
people plunge in cesspool of vice and sin.
Dislodged empathy finds its way astray in chaos
as morality is defaced by harsh intolerance
and kinship disintegrates within abhorrence.
In the cramped squalid suffocating state
the system of severe supremacy emerges,
holds the reins of rigid governance
when even the thoughts are imprisoned.
Enwrapped within collapsed wings of caged birds,
the confined hearts crumble quietly
in the abyss of controlled isolation.
For the helpless captured by dreamless darkness
where even the moon must be permitted to shine,
thin streaks of self-respect get smothered
like the rays of hope entwined with sparks of dissent,
extinguished by the strict surveillance of fear
in the situation of silent submission.
Deprived of the draft of ethical air,
destroying the tenets of human values,
people with blank faces under watchful eyes
walk as shadows of nonentity with muted souls,
trying to train their minds what not to believe,
when even the thoughts are imprisoned
as freedom becomes a memory.
They say she was a caring mum
and liked by all she knew;
but now she's jailed for killing folk
(and mutilated two!)
the first song I ever heard
was not listened to with ears
the rhythmic beat of your heart
was the melody I danced to…
…the whoosh of life blood, my lullaby
my heart learned the harmony
rejoicing in our sweet duet
I still hear the echo of that maternal music
the natural tempo has been bastardized
mutilated by machinery
the nerve splitting beeps that slowed
and then stopped
/\/\/\/\/\/\/ \ /\ /\ /\ /\ /\______________________
my heart mourns and aches with the loss
the dance partner and teacher I love
now, stuttering and insecure, my heart
wants the confidence of your harmony
but you taught me to sing, and now
that I teach the beat to my child,
the echo of your heart song will never die.
________/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\
Hidden in the valleys
Towered by mighty peaks
Lies the church of rejects
The church of those called weak
Those the powerful sent home
Out of strong belief
That they were a contaminant
Not worthy of the Chief
Rejected by mankind,
And seeking hopeful refuge
They travel long and far
To the Church who comforts me and you
They feed them bread and give them wine
And embrace them as they dine
See, the Church of rejects--
Who bear the pain of unacceptance
And watch rejection of the truth--
Is ministered by the one insulted
Humiliated
Murdered
Mutilated
Used as justification for those elected
The very men who cause rejection
Is ministered
By the one and only God above
The giver of light and truth
I feel dissected and mutilated. Strung up on a cross and paraded through endless eyes.
As I heard a sad
story of a woman named
Elysée,
I am standing to tell the entire world about it.
The woman who knows her value.
As some mercenaries called
M23 entered her house around
a day and foced her to lay on the ground
while looking at the sky.
She listened to them and laid easily
on the floor to avoid to be slaughtered
or shot publicly.
As she refused to sleep
with some mercenaries,
She was hit,
raped,
and mutilated ...
her eyes gouged out
in the presence of her children
and husband.
I can say loud, "
Woe to these heartless
Rwandan mercenaries."
As the women celebrate today
March 8, 2025.
My call to you dear mamas and sisters,
" feel the pains of Congolese women
Oh wise women of the World.
Stand with the women of Goma
and Bukavu who are victims of daily atrocities.
So sad as many women of northern, southern
Kivu and ituri continue to be preys of some rebels
and mercenaries.
Hooves of horses thundered across the fields
Onward they came urged by murderous men
Huddled behind stout stone walls
Women and children in the halls
Tears were shed as in fear we waited
Not knowing what would happen
as evil came to our door
Where are you we cried in despair losing all hope
Would we eventually swing high on a rope.
Faith misplaced on invisible beings
We were few against a mighty force
Heat from their breath felt on our skin
Our men were doughty fighters all
Soon though they would eventually fall
Over run by superior numbers
Trampled in the dust by sharp hooves,
Cheering from throats of viscious men.
Those that survived broken and bloodied
Hung by their necks until they passed
Mutilated and despoiled now gone to their peace
Jeering victors tied us and carried away
To imprisonment in hanging gibbets
Facing all weathers and words of hate
This in the end was to be our fate.
Andrew P McIntyre. 07/01/2025 (c).
And I step out into the unknown
The rain has just begun
I gently stand up from the tree
And I begin to notice
That after all that has happened
And by love mutilated
I sit and think
How could I have lived
But, yet, for the first time
In this unjust life
From bleeding my heart has stopped
And nothing hurts anymore
And, as if it doesn't matter what they did
Back in the old days
For I have forgotten all that happened
And finally, I am reconciled with myself
They confiscated the paradox; they called it unlawful,
Carving the truth to the desired measure,
Shaming the threat and killing the unworthy.
But for years in the grayness created with blood,
Years of inhaling toxic facades and consuming revolts,
He brought jewels to her feet and worshiped
The same idea and image that everyone hated.
In a world of shadows, where words are cut,
And thoughts are shaped like clay,
Truth hides under veils of silence,
While dreams are hunted like prey in the night.
We try to see through the cracks of reality,
To find sparks of light in the dense darkness,
But the paradox, that divine gift, slips through our fingers,
In a world that prefers the silence of comfortable lies.
And yet, in our depths, we know that truth,
Though carved and mutilated, continues to breathe,
A small but unyielding flame that burns,
In the hearts of those who still dare to dream.
As threads of pale winter moonlight shine upon rippling puddles,
broken reflections stare back,
setting the scene
in lonesome streets of solitude.
A bitter, harsh wind blows in from the raging river.
Reality sets in
as goosebumps coat barren, gelid flesh,
exposing bluish, translucent veins.
Leaning against icy bricks,
my breath, like smoke, rises into the atmosphere.
Touching it with bare fingers,
I try to grab at the last semblance of warmth that reminds me,
whilst a biting silence overtakes the night.
Your voice still echoes in my mutilated ears,
replaying all my insecurities on repeat.
The darkness within could never be quelled—
this I warned you time and time again.
Save me from the flames, you tried,
but they have been licking at my soul
since I drew my first breath.
In every reincarnation, every lifetime,
I watched as it seeped into your heart,
washing away your light,
replacing hope with shame,
love mangled with hate,
until even the air around us became tainted.
Each touch more toxic than the last,
ripped apart by generational curses
placed upon my forehead at the altar of my birth.
Driving down the danger zone my destiny dies in a dead end street
Dragging dilapidated deliveries doing the Damn Demons divine deed
Distance deceives my demented disguise the dumb things I don't do
Decisions divide deep, deep inside the Devil's debt is way past due
The Mark of Madness melts away most of my meager mental mind
Masqueraded as this monster man, malicious, morbid eyes made blind
Minced meat is the aftermath of millions of marching, marching men
Mutilated in mislead miles of the massacre's modern mazes again
Frightened and forged in fear from fought fires that forever flare
Feelings flip in the floppiness as a filet fish feels in fresh air
First forget as focus fled floating fails falling to land face first
Faster the flow you freeze now froze finally your face finds free dirt
bmdavey@09/19/2024
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