It's funny how many people
will gather around
just to see one man on a building.
They don’t even know me
I barely even know me.
I’ve seen the gate but I've
never entered it;
never could find the **** key.
It's sick really,
they’re not here
because they care
they don’t even know who I am.
They just want to
partake in ritual sacrifice.
I’ll die like a Viking
a heroic death in combat.
I’ll be caught by Valkyries.
My body will be
of fire
and I will steal their children’s innocence.
They can shield their eyes,
but I’ll
scar the Earth,
I’ll
paint her red.
A mural with my brain.
And they can see everything that’s inside.
I’ll break the **** door
right off its hinges.
You can’t make people care,
but you can force them to see.
It's cold up here,
and the city is beautiful:
constructs of man
breaking the sky.
And me, in her.
At least the wind
is on my side,
the defiled king left to die
in a labyrinth of stone.
The sewers as my
burial crypt,
rats and snakes
******* my blood.
But the remnants of a soul
long forgot
still feeds the mouths that
rely on the few with food.
Their stomachs ache and
their hearts pound to
the beat of one drum.
A drum that beckons me to the edge.
Who am I to starve the hungry?
They don’t need a break,
they need to push harder.
I planted the trees.
I planted the oak
and I killed the yew.
I’ve tasted its arils
and made peace with the Ibis
that guided me here.
And as it watches me
with craned neck,
and bent beak
I leave my throne
and descend to water those
whose shade I will never sit beneath.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 7:37 PM UTC
It's funny how many people
will gather around
just to see one man on a building.
They don’t even know me
I barely even know me.
I’ve seen the gate but I've
never entered it;
never could find the **** key.
It's sick really,
they’re not here
because they care
they don’t even know who I am.
They just want to
partake in ritual sacrifice.
I’ll die like a Viking
a heroic death in combat.
I’ll be caught by Valkyries.
My body will be
of fire
and I will steal their children’s innocence.
They can shield their eyes,
but I’ll
scar the Earth,
I’ll
paint her red.
A mural with my brain.
And they can see everything that’s inside.
I’ll break the **** door
right off its hinges.
You can’t make people care,
but you can force them to see.
It's cold up here,
and the city is beautiful:
constructs of man
breaking the sky.
And me, in her.
At least the wind
is on my side,
the defiled king left to die
in a labyrinth of stone.
The sewers as my
burial crypt,
rats and snakes
******* my blood.
But the remnants of a soul
long forgot
still feeds the mouths that
rely on the few with food.
Their stomachs ache and
their hearts pound to
the beat of one drum.
A drum that beckons me to the edge.
Who am I to starve the hungry?
They don’t need a break,
they need to push harder.
I planted the trees.
I planted the oak
and I killed the yew.
I’ve tasted its arils
and made peace with the Ibis
that guided me here.
And as it watches me
with craned neck,
and bent beak
I leave my throne
and descend to water those
whose shade I will never sit beneath.
Part 1 of "Ode to the Seven Virgins"
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