Thursday, 7 July 2011

No more than a bloated memory


They see you wounded and they pretend you are dead


Forgotten, helpless


They say their prayers, blow their kisses on your forehead


as if you were to care




In vain you open your mouth


the words are bubbles of spit


suspended in the air


a child's play for the devil's heir




They soon forget about you


your name a hole on the stone


without cracks, with no way to leave


to drift away from their idiocy




Forever a liquid contained in the emptiness within


past and present


a lie covers another lie


it flies and cries my rage 

never ending my despair 

No comments:

Post a Comment