Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Aug 2014
The
Soul is
Not even
Real. A man-made
Convention from fear.
Just as religion and divinity,
Are works of fiction. For god is already dead.

The acrid smell of aged *****, lingers
As I stare drearily out my bedroom window.
I contemplate antiquated men in Smokey backrooms,
Spinning and weaving the most brilliant lie,
Which has ever been conceived.
I wrote this when I had lost my faith, though it is starting to retake hold in my life, I thought I would still share.
Written by
Windsor Wilhelmsen
401
 
Please log in to view and add comments on poems