deepundergroundpoetry.com
Repetition
Beneath all the lust of our fathers, we stood in the place of creation.
Waiting with bated breath for life in self.
Finally.
Within that throe of fate again.
Finally.
In that prison of time again.
Finally.
It was the cold that we wanted, like we've had before.
It was death that we needed, to begin the cycle once more.
We looked upon libraries of lessons, waiting for there use.
We would satisfy the watchers, in this skin that bruised.
Beneath all the hate, where we fall down, breaking the chain to the ancients.
There is a silent place, devoid of faces.
Finally.
Within that throe of fate again.
Finally.
In that prison of time again.
Finally.
It was the cold that we wanted, like we've had before.
It was death that we needed, to begin the cycle once more.
Waiting with bated breath for life in self.
Finally.
Within that throe of fate again.
Finally.
In that prison of time again.
Finally.
It was the cold that we wanted, like we've had before.
It was death that we needed, to begin the cycle once more.
We looked upon libraries of lessons, waiting for there use.
We would satisfy the watchers, in this skin that bruised.
Beneath all the hate, where we fall down, breaking the chain to the ancients.
There is a silent place, devoid of faces.
Finally.
Within that throe of fate again.
Finally.
In that prison of time again.
Finally.
It was the cold that we wanted, like we've had before.
It was death that we needed, to begin the cycle once more.
Published 11th Jan 2016
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