And so the beast is ushered forth
into this wasteland of broken hopes and dreams.
Lo, the beast is the herald
of the passing of an age.
Watch, friend, as it devours
remorseless, yet without rage:
a slow and plotting path it takes
as violently the earth it shakes,
madness, does its knowledge make,
trembling, shall we even wake...?

Waking from this reality
into this nightmare born of tears,
I scream and cry for a God
that has not believed in me in years.

Clinging to an unravelling memory,
I strain to stay in the land of sleep.
Her tattered, broken form fills my arms:
A broken soul for none to weep.

And once again I cry out,
struggling awake,
and when our voices die out,
we so easily all forsake.

Memories are what make us,
but how are we defined?
We paint ourselves in innocence
becoming marred by love and lust.

Yet we hold fast to this dreamscape
that bends and takes root in our soul--
swallowed by our projections,
awake we thrash, longing for escape.

And once again I cry out,
struggling awake.
And when our voices die out,
we so easily all forsake.

Soon, her tattered broken corpse
I'll lay into this ground.
The beast has left her shattered,
and has me now unbound.
No sentiment can lay me down
and see me back to sleep,
no poem again can guard my love
and pray her soul to keep.
The beast has rendered my eyelids
and suffered me awake.
His reality my dream no more,
in waking sleeping I cannot be sure,
that once was will be again before
I wake or dream and find that you're....

04/08/2008

Posted on 04/08/2008
Copyright © 2024 T.J. Carver