tattoos, the mark of Cain
instinctively inducing revulsion
stirring a mix of fear and hate
and of contempt and pity
today a common mark of man
mistaking individuality for identity
abhorrence for affirmation of being
and grotesque debasement for beauty
the mark of exile, rejection, and wickedness
now of fellowship, freedom, and choice
embracing the perverse to shock as all children do
now permanently etched, defiant without understanding
perhaps it is fitting and timely now
for the world is going the way of Cain
the mark of man is yet another sign
manifesting openly for those given to see
a shell, a rock, valueless
token of exchange
Cain's creation, perhaps,
impelled by hunger and his mark
today a non attributable lie
a picture of true faith
- but the sword still stands -
speaks more truth than any word can
deeper its insidious roots grow
for the greater its seeming efficacy
displacing the currency of love
for my enemies love me as themselves
but the lie is true
gnawing from the inside out
from nations, to businesses, to people,
a soulless heartless ******* remains
by the sword you live, by the sword you die
Cain killed Abel, for Abel was favoured.
Losers need losers, for then nobody wins.
Rather a robber be king, and all be robbed.
The mark, a small price to despise the favoured.
Why Trump? Because *******! That’s why.
Oh how I knew
that I had too much to do
but instead of doing what needed to be done
I sat around and did none
too many things are on my brain
I almost feel like Cain
but instead of Abel being my brother
I am killing another
a productive we
A me who could see the things to be done
but alas the current me had outrun.
I have an accounting midterm tomorrow so instead i'm writing poems
Bright from the wine-dark womb the world
Is light itself, and the fingers of the newest covenant
Flower like petals.
She comes forth like a promise
Between legs that bore her;
Her cord has not yet been cut into the kiss of Cain,
And the secrets of her origin cling tight
To her flesh. Her chest heaves
Its first breath out of the blurry brightness,
******* in spirit from the dead air.
She holds for a surprised second,
Then throws back her rose-crowned head
Hitting the vase
Emptying my angst
I am better
To my past
Errands of old
Trusting my instinct
I decide to
Evil and vile
Thought or emotions
Fall with me
Loving gypsy gold
Feathered motivations coated
within every layer of
her distorted refection.
No one will taste the flavours of
her contorted thoughts,
everyone coated in delusions...
by Crimson Stain
Even the Great Flood
can't wash this sin
Demons burn me
Culled my brother
like I'm Cain.
07 August 2015
© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.
He watches; quiet, reflective.
No doubt he detected
The weight of my
My name similar to his,
Who now rots under sunlight,
Unabashed in his righteousness
To which I was blind.
I find myself here,
In a garden once perfect,
Now tainted with ******.
I heard the scratching,
Faint at first,
So I turned and saw him.
The raven watches;
His gaze so effective.
His foot scratches the ground,
Making a sound that feels
He unearths the freedom
That I need him to show me.
Just below me,
The earth is opening up.
I grab my brother's limp arm,
Drag him away
From the evidence of his harm.
From the judgment of God.
The raven approves;
He quietly nods.
Decided to take part in NaPoWriMo. http://www.napowrimo.net/day-one-it-begins/