deepundergroundpoetry.com

A Journey into the Depths of Human Pain

We say that we know sufferings,        
that we can empathize with the farthest extents of human pain,      
but we lie.      
If you can read this message, then you are affluent,      
and a sadder person lies beneath you.      
       
Are you dead my brother?      
Are you dead my sister?      
Are you dead my mother and father?      
My child?      
Does your mind's body wreath with troubles through the night      
as you feel the darkness take you for its aliment?      
When you close your eyes, do you pray to drift off into nonexistence,      
to find an escapism that’s eternal      
somewhere within the human imagination        
where a bright angel or seductive fallen angel or savior or antichrist or something      
could enclose you within its wings of good or evil?      
To be completely lost is better than to be found within the terrible truths of this world.      
       
“You can destroy my body—burn it, mutilate it until it is only composed of rotten bloody chunks of flesh, but my soul, who I really am, is beautiful and eternal.”      
Do you long to say these words?      
To live always knowing that every breath taken is one expired      
forever      
for another      
is a constant torture between empathy and self-maintenance.      
       
Have you died my brother?      
Have you died my sister?      
Have you died my mother and father?      
My child?      
Death transcends the crest of a man, the peak of his Everest,      
and as shadow, watches the cards of his secret ambitions      
and gaffs in front of his face--      
Death’s wild serpent tongue bouncing and spitting in his heartless black delight      
of witnessing the blood that we serve to human avarice.      
       
In this life or gradual fall from life into the gripping stone arms of physical Dissolution,        
I am brought to an altar in an earthen cave        
past the renovated stalagmites and stalactites of the capitalistic path of economic pilgrimage.        
The friendly voice surrenders to the resonation,      
and the resonation of one’s own sound is all perceived.      
It’s an altar of gold and ancient glory.      
Gold stands lie before the far away throne—      
the throne—distant from the stands lifting the supported bowls that hold the live burning objects of penance.      
I see some Jews, some men crying out to God in Arabic, human-like forms melting their skins and meat away      
until white bone is revealed in the dancing flames.        
“Killed by the avarice of the Chinese Republic leader Mao Zedong”, I search the meaning of one stand’s inscription with my heart.      
The non-conformist Russian tongues agonizingly shout, “Net, net, ya ne khochu umirat'!”        
That is to say, “No, no, I don’t want to die!”      
       
But what domesticates my eyes with its extravagant biting whip patterns      
is that every disgusting murder is present in the eternal golden markings of the stands,      
and at the very top of each, printed in all languages, is “Matados por la avaricia de la raza humana (killed by the avarice of the human race).”      
Moving forward, I want to see this god      
who engorges himself with the substance of our greed.      
Is it Hitler? Is it Leopold II? Ismail Enver?      
But a man marches in front of me in a military uniform,      
and I believe I also see a preacher or a church father.      
They each meet an altar and fall to their knees        
and worship their loss of humanity,      
with small bejeweled silver knives slitting their wrists and allowing the crimson blood to pour      
and, up, flow along a trail edged into the golden posts.      
       
These men bring their shares of slaves of capture who are locked inside the shrinal stands      
to be given to their dim fates in time.      
The most horrid sight is a human body that loses human appearance        
under the compression of the masters.      
You know with your heart that a human is beyond the visage,      
but your eyes are tested so drastically to produce an empathy and not a fear.      
Fearing for your lives.      
Fearing for the lives of others.      
Death looms behind.      
Deeply I break my face into monstrous expressions      
to hear news chime of another soul being tossed into the abyss of the unknown      
and to hear the cries of many that taste the boldest sufferings with their throats      
not given fork,      
not chewing,      
just swallowing the lumps      
and I know that for every unfortunate man heard there are a thousand more.      
       
Forward, forward, forward I run to the throne of the Absolute.      
Who are you?      
I climb the ladder to the seat of the throne.      
There is a dry human skull with deep darkness in its optical pits.      
That is it      
that lays itself out on the lavished purple pillow in the golden lap of the throne of gods.      
Grasping the deity of our self-destruction within my hand,      
I analyze its front and back.      
Inscribed in the interior there’s a single word of Latin text—      
inutilis.      
       
I love you brother.      
I love you sister.      
I love you mother and father.      
And my child      
I love you      
though we are a species that’s dying.      
Feeling for my live.      
Feeling for the lives of others.      
The avarice we serve is useless,      
and no man, no god can benefit from the passing of one of us.
Written by DecipherMe
Published
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