Excuse me if my words cut deep
when the lines were meant to *****
the conscience sleeping down below
slumbering while a world drowned
I'll lean into the ****
asking for the next few minutes
long enough to read the text
a poem's reflection of your soul.
The slash draws red upon the skin
this is the color shared by all
reminder of the liquid shared
crimson base below gold threads
yet still the colors are confused
gold leads to silver, then to green
imagining reality where none should be
if caring is for the fellow man.
What is the measure for your charge
dictation of what comes before?
all things aligned, in their time done
something's first, the highest goal
expectations writ to book's pages
the clink of coin in a purse
comfort gained, never lost
these are the gild some have lost.
It's fine to stand on the tall hill
until the winds carries the screams
from the eddies below the perch
writhe the sinners of your mind
they are not lesser than your idols
specifically yourself in mirror's frame
blessed by a god you only see
perhaps it's your image you embrace.
Ivory towers with lone residents
fortunates seek the frosty air
with no taint by the lost
drifting up from hell's domain
the stench is scattered by money's breeze
the hurricane that lifts the boats
to a shore that few should see
shared disaster seen as reprieve.
When red is ocean's hue
my words seek to disabuse
those with skin too thick to feel
with images from the other world
when red is spilled at time's course
no matter how remote a life became
I hope my words found a place
to be considered before the end.
© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170512.
May 12, 2017
May 12, 2017 at 5:21 AM UTC
Excuse me if my words cut deep
when the lines were meant to *****
the conscience sleeping down below
slumbering while a world drowned
I'll lean into the ****
asking for the next few minutes
long enough to read the text
a poem's reflection of your soul.
The slash draws red upon the skin
this is the color shared by all
reminder of the liquid shared
crimson base below gold threads
yet still the colors are confused
gold leads to silver, then to green
imagining reality where none should be
if caring is for the fellow man.
What is the measure for your charge
dictation of what comes before?
all things aligned, in their time done
something's first, the highest goal
expectations writ to book's pages
the clink of coin in a purse
comfort gained, never lost
these are the gild some have lost.
It's fine to stand on the tall hill
until the winds carries the screams
from the eddies below the perch
writhe the sinners of your mind
they are not lesser than your idols
specifically yourself in mirror's frame
blessed by a god you only see
perhaps it's your image you embrace.
Ivory towers with lone residents
fortunates seek the frosty air
with no taint by the lost
drifting up from hell's domain
the stench is scattered by money's breeze
the hurricane that lifts the boats
to a shore that few should see
shared disaster seen as reprieve.
When red is ocean's hue
my words seek to disabuse
those with skin too thick to feel
with images from the other world
when red is spilled at time's course
no matter how remote a life became
I hope my words found a place
to be considered before the end.
© 2017. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20170512.
My poem, “The Other World”, was inspired by Benedict Smith’s quote “I asked her if she believed in love, and she smiled and said that it as her most elaborate method of self-hurt”.
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