deepundergroundpoetry.com
A chain to religion.
Salvation - no Godly pasture, it is the moors I walk,
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes, mud covered dress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff, Mercutio would be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steel and real like your sword that strikes me.
The bone that lifted out of safe-haven flesh to show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm that swims it's way through my track.
Do not race my mind.
I cannot catch you, aim and fire, with all this blood shed as you cut cord after cord.
Memory, guilt, lust, affection, innocence. Purity. Shame.
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff, Mercutio, Iago would be proud.
I need to breathe, gentleman.
I cannot hold my 1875 Russian in shaking hand,
like your trilby, as you venture into my holes of tight unknowing.
I am not yet ready.
This is the cross I bear at church,
the forgiveness I scream for on moor or field.
I have lost all womanly features to a game of sweet disrespect.
Love you, loathe you, the wedding dress is stripped.
I cannot sit here waiting.
Russian on mahogany table
cigarette on ashtray edge
always calling your name,
always respecting your sinful charm.
The woman knows no innocence now,
take me, leave me, stab me or refresh me. Are you Mac or Microsoft?
The bone is protruding from hip and finger and toe and heart.
I am broken.
This was a beautiful race for the uneducated souls of drugs, drink and spilling-over-emotion.
If I were educated these emotions that swallowed my brain would be foolish virtue.
Science and mathematics and psychology would crush my overfeeling and sensitive being.
I fell, a waif, only a woman, at the last hurdle,
at the lost moor,
at the broken door that was once a home.
I forget the importance of forgiveness.
Unworthy,
like the bird that dropped it's white gift on your new, black coat.
Bad night for guns and swords and unforgiving lords.
The time is now.
Redeem me.[/font]
screaming the name of a less than holy man,
mud covered shoes, mud covered dress,
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff, Mercutio would be proud.
I gave nothing to recieve nothing,
or I gave everything to fall at the last hurdle.
Running, shooting, tripping, grazing my knees on your razor-sharp words.
Cold and steel and real like your sword that strikes me.
The bone that lifted out of safe-haven flesh to show crimson lines of veins and puss.
Infection.
Did you not wash your sword 'fore striking me?
The internal worm that swims it's way through my track.
Do not race my mind.
I cannot catch you, aim and fire, with all this blood shed as you cut cord after cord.
Memory, guilt, lust, affection, innocence. Purity. Shame.
Anne Hathaway, Heathcliff, Mercutio, Iago would be proud.
I need to breathe, gentleman.
I cannot hold my 1875 Russian in shaking hand,
like your trilby, as you venture into my holes of tight unknowing.
I am not yet ready.
This is the cross I bear at church,
the forgiveness I scream for on moor or field.
I have lost all womanly features to a game of sweet disrespect.
Love you, loathe you, the wedding dress is stripped.
I cannot sit here waiting.
Russian on mahogany table
cigarette on ashtray edge
always calling your name,
always respecting your sinful charm.
The woman knows no innocence now,
take me, leave me, stab me or refresh me. Are you Mac or Microsoft?
The bone is protruding from hip and finger and toe and heart.
I am broken.
This was a beautiful race for the uneducated souls of drugs, drink and spilling-over-emotion.
If I were educated these emotions that swallowed my brain would be foolish virtue.
Science and mathematics and psychology would crush my overfeeling and sensitive being.
I fell, a waif, only a woman, at the last hurdle,
at the lost moor,
at the broken door that was once a home.
I forget the importance of forgiveness.
Unworthy,
like the bird that dropped it's white gift on your new, black coat.
Bad night for guns and swords and unforgiving lords.
The time is now.
Redeem me.[/font]
Published 12th Jan 2011
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12th Jan 2011 3:10pm
12th Jan 2011 3:12pm
