In time, this time…?
If willed to you, were these strings…what would you have of her then?
Would you tie her up tight so you could parade her about like a horse?
Would you draw her round you like your paper-doll, marionette, a pet?
What manipulation tactics prove your best recourse for all her refusals?
When after all of these things transpire, as we all know they have, for she
is weakened; has become weak willed in old age though body be young.
What treachery is within the confines of the orbs within us she’ll not see?
Sorrow! What has she happened upon here in these swamps of tragedy?
If time heals all wounds; what will be left of her when time turns about?
If these wounds are all that remain of the creature origination that was…
why then would we want said time to heal us of these things we’re of?
How will we ever sing if all that remains is an undefinable outline in sand?
If she gave again, this soulless body, would you treat it to the same contempt?
That which does not kill us makes us wish we were still sealed in the vaults?
She will ask these invisible dwellers if they would give this back if option be.
Fear ties these knots about our solar plexuses, attaches these containments.
We would always be these broken hearts worn on the sleeves of our fathers.
We would have it no other way, as to try to force our souls to stand and fight
these moulds we are all forced to bare and then to share with our children.
These choices are made within, and the within is left in doubt and without.
These mothers never show the potential of our accomplishments; is barred
at the door by the same strings that attach between fearful mind and heart.
What is to become of her as she stands in the corner trying to remember it?
That song she thought she heard for just a moment in her childhood guise.
Walking dead continue their trek across great painted voids without sense.
No direction is laid out in line for the colony of ants to follow and get home.
We shackle each and every one of our brothers so that our children learn to
commit these treasons in our absence, so we feel we will live into forever.
There is no missing link or we would not find ourselves out here in this pit.
When great globes of anguish cast us off of the stonework we have raped,
will there be any memories of what we once thought to offer in our stead?
We shall be reduced to puzzles of dust, with none left to glory in our history.
---Phoenix
5/24/2008
any copying/reproduction/distribution of this writing, in whole or in part, without express permission from the author is strictly prohibited. ©SaerenPhoenix 2008
(Please contact the author with questions.)
If willed to you, were these strings…what would you have of her then?
Would you tie her up tight so you could parade her about like a horse?
Would you draw her round you like your paper-doll, marionette, a pet?
What manipulation tactics prove your best recourse for all her refusals?
When after all of these things transpire, as we all know they have, for she
is weakened; has become weak willed in old age though body be young.
What treachery is within the confines of the orbs within us she’ll not see?
Sorrow! What has she happened upon here in these swamps of tragedy?
If time heals all wounds; what will be left of her when time turns about?
If these wounds are all that remain of the creature origination that was…
why then would we want said time to heal us of these things we’re of?
How will we ever sing if all that remains is an undefinable outline in sand?
If she gave again, this soulless body, would you treat it to the same contempt?
That which does not kill us makes us wish we were still sealed in the vaults?
She will ask these invisible dwellers if they would give this back if option be.
Fear ties these knots about our solar plexuses, attaches these containments.
We would always be these broken hearts worn on the sleeves of our fathers.
We would have it no other way, as to try to force our souls to stand and fight
these moulds we are all forced to bare and then to share with our children.
These choices are made within, and the within is left in doubt and without.
These mothers never show the potential of our accomplishments; is barred
at the door by the same strings that attach between fearful mind and heart.
What is to become of her as she stands in the corner trying to remember it?
That song she thought she heard for just a moment in her childhood guise.
Walking dead continue their trek across great painted voids without sense.
No direction is laid out in line for the colony of ants to follow and get home.
We shackle each and every one of our brothers so that our children learn to
commit these treasons in our absence, so we feel we will live into forever.
There is no missing link or we would not find ourselves out here in this pit.
When great globes of anguish cast us off of the stonework we have raped,
will there be any memories of what we once thought to offer in our stead?
We shall be reduced to puzzles of dust, with none left to glory in our history.
---Phoenix
5/24/2008
any copying/reproduction/distribution of this writing, in whole or in part, without express permission from the author is strictly prohibited. ©SaerenPhoenix 2008
(Please contact the author with questions.)
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