Friday, February 25, 2011

Tactile Agony

The hollow Oak, that unseen hand,
At a distant slope, in an obscure land,
Caress our every hope-filled memory with
Theories of identity which border the
Insanity, the delusional solemnity our clones afar
Leave us with an inner battle, over what is real and which is dreamt,
Erodes every absolution we’ve come to know,

Allowing sin to reemerge and reengage,
Growing in a wavelike
Overthrow, of who we are, and what we stand for,
Nearly, completely, dissolving all the truths, we’ve held dear,
You are left alone, questioning your own identity

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