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Dark Poetry #4
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sullivanthepoet.com
Member
since 2007-06-28
Posts 154
Devon, England

0 posted 2007-09-17 02:24 PM


That parasite you surely be, consuming, with impunity,
a host that scarcely knows your suit while slowly, slyly, you pollute;
That sees you always, yet be blind, by custom to its fate resigned,
as drop by glot, and hour by day, in stealth you leech its life away.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

Vile living walls your fortress round - fall sheer, unbroken, to the ground,
made slick against outward attack, built high upon the workers’ back;
No care to how they live or die, whilst you in milk and honey lie,
within your nepot’s orb confined, you favour none but your own kind.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

That neither do you till, nor sow, nor hand’s turn to your commons grow,
so that which was when first you came, diminished leaves beyond reclaim;
You nothing yield, nor no thing make, save from the drudge of others take,
til that which suckles all consumes, and rank decay its husk perfumes.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

Birthed deep within incestuous beds, your issue as a cancer spreads,
devouring vibrant flesh apace, allows your prog’ny fill the space;
Voracious and insatiable, necrotic and unspeakable,
a seething incubus within, a seeming florid, healthy skin.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

Scant zest your ilk lends honest toil, no furnace fires nor breaking soil,
forbid this hour glass’ scalding sands, despoil such soft and work shy hands;
Scorn foundry scars burned welt on weal, seared deeper ‘fore their forebears heal,
spurn leathern knuckles weathered proud, that witness every furrow ploughed.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

No crippled backs, no calloused mauls, no filth sopped lungs, no broken balls,
spared you death’s knell, the pit’s black cough, with snouts dipped ear deep in the trough;
No tortured spine, no spastic gait, no bones bowed others’ greed to sate,
while bent back workers strain and crack, to feed the monkey on their back.
Cleric… “J’accuse!”

Yet for that succour guilefully stole, you lend not one jot to the whole,
not one remembrance worth the hark, to worthily your passing mark;
No passions fired, no iron wrought, no bridges built, no battles fought,
to witness being nothing save, a paper temple o’er thy grave.

Cleric… “J’accuse!”
www.sullivanthepoet.com


© Copyright 2007 Sullivan - All Rights Reserved
Artic Wind
Member Rara Avis
since 2007-09-16
Posts 8080
Realm of Supernatural
1 posted 2007-10-19 09:38 PM


WOW

i enjoyed it

ARCTIC WIND

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