This broken engineering
my chest holds,
ticks when she comes
and I know it's her,
I can sense her.
Sometimes
a fallen angel
with a broken wing of sorrows,
Or a demon
possessing my bones
with rage and ****** eyes.
Hell or heaven,
always.
The devil and
Christ himself
gazing at my sins,
quietly.
That is
how it feels.
She can carry my dry lips
into the finest wine.
Drag me to a desert
bequeathing my flesh
to be judge by a merciless full sun.
She wounds me
to cure me,
I yield.
She fills me
to the bottom
just to be completely poured out
in the frightening whiteness
that haunts my dreams.
Leaving me
restless voids.
The tears
rain hides.
A scar
in my words.
A child's smile
in the corner
of my mouth.
Path,
for the calm walks
my feet longs.
She is what will
ultimately destroy me,
she is my salvation.
She is my death
and my ressurection.
Feb 11, 2014
Feb 11, 2014 at 1:18 PM UTC
This broken engineering
my chest holds,
ticks when she comes
and I know it's her,
I can sense her.
Sometimes
a fallen angel
with a broken wing of sorrows,
Or a demon
possessing my bones
with rage and ****** eyes.
Hell or heaven,
always.
The devil and
Christ himself
gazing at my sins,
quietly.
That is
how it feels.
She can carry my dry lips
into the finest wine.
Drag me to a desert
bequeathing my flesh
to be judge by a merciless full sun.
She wounds me
to cure me,
I yield.
She fills me
to the bottom
just to be completely poured out
in the frightening whiteness
that haunts my dreams.
Leaving me
restless voids.
The tears
rain hides.
A scar
in my words.
A child's smile
in the corner
of my mouth.
Path,
for the calm walks
my feet longs.
She is what will
ultimately destroy me,
she is my salvation.
She is my death
and my ressurection.
This is a dialog in which I try to catch what poetry causes me.
The inspiration - or the lack of it. All it's nuances.
Thanks for reading.
Marlon O.
