Poetry

Voices

Voices

Blackened creatures fingerpaint my surrealistic
masterpiece of a shattered and hallowed reality,
forgotten and lost in the memories of blasphemy
and coronation, these sinister walls in which
I'm trapped have baptized the messiah in blood,
standing high, crying, fighting, dying, your jesus
is dead, trapped inside this mind I watched him
die, all hope and ability to cope died with his
mortal soul, did god cry when he forced his only
begotten son to die, burning in the fragile head
built upon things better off dead, better off left
unsaid, things that built this crimson path down
which I'm led, down this path to memories of a
god that is so dead, to his cross, to his faust, in my
head to haunt, but in this broken mind, god is
dead.


Originally published in Palabras Spring 2008

RYAN A ORTH

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