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Slowest Scar
You are the painfull scar
that lies tight around me
cutting the freedom from my words
endouring me to fall second fiddle to passion.
Whipped and cowering the child lyes
the mother cries
and each tortured soul plays with the leisions of the practical family.
fall to the purity of the balanced laughter,
roam inside the wings of dormant angels
that float too high to be touched,
eyes are stretched from the sockets become to glazed by trust to see.
and I buckel naked under chains ripping at the metal splintering the nails of fingers, biting at the threads of my tounge, gravelling at the knees of slumber.
holding all within just to break the sickness that idles me.
I am the American family, the tragedy the embalmed funeral of the grey heaven flesh that melts in the sunday glass ,
frothing to the somber beat of the store bought malt,
and yes, here sits sister mercy sipping at my freedom.
for drones we are now converted, rolling under the cab , we are all the wheels of passions slowest made scar by far.
__________________
~Esen
What is everyone doing in my room?
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