This is the new blog...CONFESSION ZERO



The world's tending to its headstones
Amid the scorching noise of collapse
Rasping at the rustling of brittle grass
Tears instead of rain lamenting dryly
At the door of the world's mausoleums.
No sigh of relief from nature's swoon

As I sit outside, eager, longing for a breeze.
Far-away lands tend to their grumbling wound
And the silhouette of a naked woman
Lances the boil through,
Yet young men with fire in their belly
Lie dormant, unmoved.
Now a young Adonis waltzes past,
Tapping on the sacred ground
Yet Aphrodite cannot stir the women,
Hearts still wafting, to writhe in dance,
The children with the blazing rasp of hope
Lay static `neath the glum ground.

As I write these words, this ode,
Feeling the weight of things I cannot move
The sour breeze easily bends the trees
Or the trees curve the wind
Lurching forward to taste.
I can only write of hope
Yearning for the redbird freshly calling
Instead of the raven's warble low.
I cannot really know,
Just that the frail grass `neath my feet
Is being dampened by my ache.

Copyright © 2006 mrp thepoetryman

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