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| Welcome ! | Home · FAQ · Topics · Web Links · Your Account · Submit Poetry · Top 30 · OldSite Link | 03-June 09:25:28 AEST | ||
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Array
(
[sid] => 16090
[catid] => 1
[aid] => Mick
[title] => Murmuring Wretches
[time] => 2003-04-16 08:35:00
[hometext] => * This is one of the best poems I've written in a while. Its based loosely on Ken Kesey's novel One flew over the Cuckoo's Nest. Hope you enjoy. *
[bodytext] => My dry, rotting, morbid eyes
Stare out of a broken, downcast face Hidden by a frail mask of joy They stare at countless souls Strapped on a bench their scarred wrists Tied down by leather thongs Skin so weathered it appears green From over use or lack there of Becoming one with the mold and dust Swirling about them like moths Drawn to a distant light They embrace their tiny companions With their fragile murmurings, Straining I try to here, but it falls Like shards of broken glass The silence, the pain, the agony, hurting hearts Its unbearable I want to flee, But I'm frozen, captivated, its so sickening Sad, they murmur on knowing no one, No one can hear their silence, But out of stubborness, or sheer determination Their lips move at an astonishing pace Til they crack, bleed, and swell Til no movement is possible Down this limitless, echoing chamber Where their hearts are ensnared, twisted And finally broken, until they are only murmuring wretches Like those that lie before my eyes Trying to maintain some dignity They attempt to work their way out Of their filth-ridden garments Their constraints feebly clink Back and forth, back and forth Til one could be driven mad By the horrendous din They are molded slowly, but surely Into lumps of nothing, a fragment Of what they once were Food stuffed down their mouths Only to be brought back up And spewed over their anorexic frames My eyes as dead as they seem Start to mist with a sort of emotion As I struggle to take it all in Dry, scaly, sickly, slippery fingers Wrap around me, and bring me to an empty bench I see a lifeless, used form Hardly bigger than a child, Yet a face like an old man Being carried off to be experimented upon Standing there wavering like a flame on a match Shoved down roughly, wrists shoved Into the leather thongs And then with a tired, defeated shudder I realize what has happened That I have been tricked And that I can never leave Alive at least... [comments] => 8 [counter] => 157 [topic] => 13 [informant] => bobotheclown [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 15 [ratings] => 3 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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