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Critical Analysis #1
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life.
| Critical Analysis #1 |
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life. |
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faith Member
since 2000-01-31
Posts 89 |
I see love in so many guises , Impersonating the lives of these mortals around me, I stand back and observe listening ,absently yet attentivley, As my ears perk up at every loving whisper being spoken, At every lie that is being fed , At every sniveling human who has read the book of pain , has licked away all its secrets , My silent corner invites me to sit and watch , its what I master in , As love dances around everywhere , fooling them all , Even I fall under its spell from time to time , believing that I too am pure, Everybody it seems is drunk , drinking away the sweet powers of insanity they possess, As the whole world chants out the sweet pleasures of the magic being woven , A curse peeking through those bloody horizons., anticipating…. But those with starry eyes have clots of blood hidden behind their dewy lashes, What do they know…for only the dead can see them! They shout out….. They are hidden yet visible…. Silent yet audible ..shouting out the realities…. The cruel myths of shattered dreams and horrifying endings, As the messengers of hate stand up and hold hands, The light they emit blinds me , Flashes of death and meaningful sacrifices create twisted visions in my mind.. As my secret corner starts breathing and heaving…… alive and hungry Bloody sharp claws hidden under those sweet smelling petals of betrayal, Those angry souls pulls out all the goods inside me and lets me be…. As I lie there in my own pool of thick black blood Dripping , sticky as thick plasma sucks at my remains like a leech, I stand up and look at the blazing sky…a huge ball of fire… As it rips apart into two.. Revelations being made.. Secrets being poured on me like cheap wine… As I m invited into those holy cathedrals of hate which I so selfishly build in the name of all those who pretended to care…. I enter..thinking nothing …no regrets ..no fear ..nothing at all!! Doors of cruel unrelenting iron are closed behind me Keys of fire… Knobs of death… Nothing is to be touched….. For now is the season of hate…. I look around fascinated and wide-eyed, My pores taking in every filthy detail… And I sneer as this one single thought keeps me charged.. That in some place faraway maybe love still lives , playing those aged old games.. Wearing its beautiful anklet of tinkling bells…. A music to my ears as the spit out puss and blood.. The more I wonder , the more I see the more happy I m … For maybe these are the stories our wombs have always been told , I make it simple for myself by accepting it.. As we bring in to this world another generation Another Past.. Another Present Another hopeless bleak future.. Another deathly disease… And so much more… As a proof of humanity, we sow only hate, we breed only anger! We are like machines being filled with hollow promises (given to each other), We are so blind …for we have forgotten today yet again… That somewhere along that easy road… Devils of our wishful thoughts await…. To engulf another lie for the sins of humanity in to its hellish darkness!sf |
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Local Rebel Member Ascendant
since 1999-12-21
Posts 5767Southern Abstentia |
Not exactly the view of life I would expect from one called faith! I think you've done an excellent job of expressing some truly self-absorbed emotions we all find within us as we transition from one phase of life to another. Some of your lines; 'Devils of our wishful thoughts await' and 'Secrets being poured on me like cheap wine…' are truly good. Personally -- with a long peice like this I'd prefer to see it broken into stanza's for readability. Also -- shorten it. Prune it a little. Art is made by taking things out sometimes... less is more... I look forward to further participation from you faith. Thanks for posting |
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Not A Poet Member Elite
since 1999-11-03
Posts 3885Oklahoma, USA |
Hi Faith, sorry I don't have time right now to fairly study a long poem like this but I will get back to it later. I did want to welcome you to Passions, though. Pete What terms shall I find sufficiently simple in their sublimity -- sufficiently sublime in their simplicity -- for the mere enunciation of my theme? Edgar Allan Poe |
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