My Omen

[i][b]This omen of truth that ligures within me
has become a ponderous lade,
derived from the depths of my soul.
The lenient hand from my maker beckons me forth
with such assuredness as to rid said afflictions that provoke
the malignant spirit that roams within my mortality.
The vacuity inside me taunts every fiber of my being.
It ignites such a passion within me that was like the smallest spark
that has grown into an immense flame that spreads like wildfire.
It shows no mercy.
Such passion cannot be silent for long.
The fearful cries of millions will not be with held!
Such tears of agony will not be diminished;
for it shall take one and only one fearless
yet compassionate seeker of peace to ease the suffering of many.

irishnavygirl,


This is not what I would call poetry. It's a collection of sentences about to bust at the seams from all the prepositional clauses that ultimately go nowhere. Lines like:

with such assuredness [is this really necessary?] as to rid said afflictions [there have been no afflictions mentioned] that provoke
the malignant spirit [which is?] that roams within my mortality [what?].

leave the reader disoriented and with no firm imagery or ideas. So much of this is categorical nonsense (bolstered by empty words) that I'm not sure fat-trimming would leave you with anything. I'd throw it away.


Best,
Brad