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Birth.

by Andrew S Adams

the tortured boy laments the lights
as the holy spirit takes his leave
and dreams awake through sleepless nights
keeping time by how he breathes
blinded by the distant moon
blanketed in black
this woeful boy decides that soon
he should wander back

back from the fray of fabric
so prematurely torn
from the dark recess of static
of defenses deeply worn

as he starts to see the sunrise come
the moons still lingers high
silver, silent, serene in one,
shouting at the spiteful sky
he talks of trials and tombs
homes inside his heart
clinging to the woman's womb
from which he could not part
but from which he has been forced
into a world he does not know
so he dreams of a place of sorts
one he can not go

one where life and death
are not matters of themselves
and clocks ticking by his baited breath
stay sitting silent on the shelf
and where clocks ticking by the silent heart
accellerate in speed
when the blood-pump beat that fails to start
gives birth to death indeed.

04/18/2005

Author's Note: i haven't written a rhyming poem for ever. i just wanted to write something, and i guess this is what you get. this might be incomplete, i don't know.

Posted on 04/19/2005
Copyright © 2024 Andrew S Adams

Member Comments on this Poem
Posted by Leslie Ann Eisenberg on 04/19/05 at 08:27 PM

i've been reading this poem since yesterday, kind of letting it seep. i didn't notice at first that it rhymed, so that works pretty seamlessly, and isn't the least bit trite. some absolutely amazing lines here -- he moons still lingers high silver, silent, serene in one, shouting at the spiteful sky he talks of trials and tombs homes inside his heart clinging to the woman's womb from which he could not depart ....absolutely the most profound part of the piece. is it finished? i have some thoughts...

Posted by Bradd Howard on 05/02/05 at 10:04 PM

wow! Just thought I would check out some of your poetry because of your Radiohead reference in your profile... but I am impressed. I tend to shy away from rhyming poems myself, but this flowed. Didn't seem forced or contrite as I find a lot of people do when they write rhyming poetry. Thank you for your words... Bradd

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