deepundergroundpoetry.com

Flags Upon My Mast

Broken and tired as i ponder my plight, the carved bones
of my body lay twisted and unfettered from a world too unjust to care.
In the solemn glare, of every eye that's ever glimpsed or paused to
stare, i feel the wind from a storm of dread blow through my hair.
Fortune won't consume the weak of heart, love hath favoured those who
chose to dare.

As i study words of fate in scripts of past,
questions fly like flags upon my mast, those questions, that burn like
scented candles through the bleak and troubled night, the answers i can
see, in their flickering warm and mellow light, bear me yet more
questions in their flight, and a thousand tears like waterfalls run,
unshadowed by the comfort of sun. Here lies a man undone, too deep
within his sorrow, deaf within his mess, to realise his battle was lost
but the war was won.

Searching through those words for
distractions in my mind, the perfect shades of beauty in her face are
all i find, though still entwined, those words and shades so clear to
my internal eye, filter through my blood, poisoning my heart until i
die. In this wilderness of nothing still i lie.

So curled on
this harsh and empty floor, abandoned by all but the moon and it's
lifeless glow, the lines of depression and stress start to show,
cutting my face with a pain so sharp the blood won't flow. It's too
cold to die tonight, and only the fine and frozen light, will ever know
of the pity i sought as i gave up the fight. My last breath like dust
to the wind is cast, and high above this room, forever will be seen in
skies so vast, in questions flown so high upon that mast.[/font]