#tuilps

sometimes i get a feeling that these hands stain

the more i let my tongue loose.

and to curse the forefront of my mind -

a diligent pursuit of the second crusade,

form and structure demolished on the battleground.

i feel in my peripheral: 

bodies, bodies, bodies.

for i live upon the rack,

yet my limbs stay intact.

now the cataracts are forming,

and you tell yourself it’s the purity -

a hypocritical self-defeat.

so what else to do, but to blame it on the life breathers?

selfish for molding a thinking being,

only to curse it for its autonomy.

one day they’ll come around,

but some still await the plastering of the cracks:

acid rain still bitter on the opened flesh.

so they stay vulnerable,

crimson and pink -

emblems of the unceasing war.

a raven might at the very least take a glance,

and at most shred that poor soul into nothing but a mere bone.

still a “fool” but you only wanted to feed from the hand that bites,

the only desire was to make peace, 

but humanity has never allied with a fanged serpent.

put me in the dungeon;

leave the remains for the snake,

and maybe they’ll macerate what’s left,

or for a change mourn the reflection.

but then would they look over their shoulders,

and realise the elevator that brought them up too took them down?

and so fate took its chances,