Stripped

 

 

            Children are born innocent,

They don’t arrive like pre-recorded tapes –

And their character,

Like light of super-nova shines -

A thousand suns.

 

            Shine!

Shining telepathically seeking

Security and warmth from a mothers

Love,

Often rewarded such

By smiles and gentle touch – but in some;

A frown presents confusion as delusions

Start to bait.

 

            A Bulb!

            A Light!

A luminous glow like chandelier attracts

Demons of persuasion

And all essence once of innocence is gone,

And the future’s robbed like

The sacking of an ashram,

And parliament of thought is no

Longer governed by co-existence of

Debate, but punished whether set

Altruistic, or evil curiosity,

And movement, becomes the slight of

Hand the Angels fear for all humanity.

 

            A Gift!

            A Touch by God!

Perhaps the antenna made like butterfly

To be crushed; a candle extinguished like

A slow flame upon the vigil of our living,

And consent is neither brokered or forgiven

As spirit fades beyond transparency of ghost;

The none existence now our being.

 

            Now the Sadists surround

In numbers corrupting ancient talents,

Where walls dividing terraced streets

Shatter like the thinnest sheets of glass,

And the blessed become the victims of insanity

Upon a land that screams asylum,

And everyone sleeps then wakes in

Puzzlement, having travelled far beyond

The mortuary, waking like the leper

That suggests; Hell!

 

            The City!

            This concrete façade full with clowns,

A myriad of beings waging war within

Themselves as hysteria of mind

Predicts the stabbings and the gun shots,

Each - a raping of a child.

 

            The World!

            The Executioners Prison!

Once a home to billions of stars;

Grows an evil entity that feasts upon

Each assaulted woe,

And hearts that sought the nature for a

Nurturing of love - are now the darkness

 Of all infamy to replace a wonder –

Once a kiss,

           

            Now only Ice remains, as a

Residue of cells keeps a silent hope,

Screaming, is ‘the infinite’ of tortured souls

That disembarks this globe,

Heading out to galaxy like monster

Feeling manically its tentacles –

Once antenna of The Butterfly,

Flexing thought only;

On ripping - everything that lives.

 

Michael J Waite 2^nd April 2010.