Published May 29, 2012
riches harboured,
stockpiled by the wary fence,
realized or not by the harbour-keeper
are death by paper,
decay by oxidation,
smoldering over into the ugly past.
non-apparent,
to the easily-cajoled, self-entitled ass hats,
this was a thing to grasp,
iron fist, relentless self-proclaimed dispensation,
founders and keepers
of a world dripping in preventable blood.
they found it,
wholly theirs and waiting to be taken,
victors at the summit of themselves,
talent borne of a reincarnated saint,
decidedly deserving,
and impeccably suited.
the thing, the it, remains the same,
the meanings and the impacts
distorted into a calamitous,
half-sewn wreckage of a tapestry,
a legacy unremarkably soiled,
carved to the airways
like a vomitous, lumbering giant,
dead at the foot of a scintillating stair,
the stairway conquered at the climax of the monumental future,
the future destined to be the impossibility of the macabre past.
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141,661 Literary Works • 675,379 Reviews
This was very detailed. Very detailed. I just stopped by to say it's REALLY good. Keep up the writing.
~Katie.
very interesting! It really makes you think. I love the last two lines, although I love all of it, too
One thing, though, is the font is a bit small and distracts the reader. I mean, I can read it, but it's still kind of small. I'd go one size bigger myself, but that's just me. If you don't want to change it, that's absaloutely fine.
Keep writing!