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MikhaelPoems
And every eight years i became someone else, it was as though i was a pilot, living vicariously through my-selves, until one stuck And began decaying in a foray of dying cells Mucked In gray hairs, and ridged nails Locked thoughts and rituals Blinding me Binding me Writhing in me From the lights of tomorrow I tried to find peace, in my reduction to ashes Soundless peace Humming me to sleep In the eve of my memory to the masses Stashed in caskets and data logs Crashed in depressive fog And with time I'm completely gone With time Nations will rise and fall Land following suit Giving way to life within a womb of the most delicate of wounds where a flower grew Where life is born anew Cycling through the blessings Hoping something catches
0
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
The observer
And every eight years i became someone else, it was as though i was a pilot, living vicariously through my-selves, until one stuck And began decaying in a foray of dying cells Mucked In gray hairs, and ridged nails Locked thoughts and rituals Blinding me Binding me Writhing in me From the lights of tomorrow I tried to find peace, in my reduction to ashes Soundless peace Humming me to sleep In the eve of my memory to the masses Stashed in caskets and data logs Crashed in depressive fog And with time I'm completely gone With time Nations will rise and fall Land following suit Giving way to life within a womb of the most delicate of wounds where a flower grew Where life is born anew Cycling through the blessings Hoping something catches
Mikhael
Written by
Mikhael
American
Dec 12, 2012
Dec 12, 2012 at 2:54 AM UTC
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