Where there is thunder that reigns
down the emptiness of your flesh,
in a war hidden and filled with apathy,
to sink behind darkness , once named shame.
There it is, the torn kingdom,
that you've claimed as your body.
The temple which you've loved,
but never cared for in those aeons of silence.
Where you pretended that doing nothing
would solve everything.
And so you weep, for the unfairness of it all,
as you claw at your already mangled flesh,
and press for the warmth of your heart.
Pretend that the rush of blood is a rolling blanket.
You swallow those shards of glass, and emulate the heavens,
and pretend your body with jagged scars
is the place for honourable heroes; pretend your triumph
in this barren, damp land of storms
is the place where thunder always reigns.
A place for heroes who never won, but died in their place.
a poem that is a bit analytical of people who are apathetic to their problems in life; who let themselves get hurt, and pretend to care for themselves by doing nothing, believing just weeping and feeling sad can solve the pain in your life; people who are apathetic, and still persist to hurt themselves (both literally and not).