Array ( [sid] => 178257 [catid] => 1 [aid] => mick [title] => Outcasts [time] => 2014-05-04 02:53:48 [hometext] => If a poem could be the love child of Justin Cronin and Mary Black… [bodytext] => they force us from the border towns,
kill us if they track us down
with hate almost as great as fear,
to drive us further beyond here.

we hold together, in the rain,
a family born of awful pain
of teeth as sharp as razor blades,
and appetites in crimson shades.

in the dark we are as one,
and sleep against the burning sun
then rise again with mournful sigh,
to squall wide-eyed at moonless sky

WhoAmI
WhoAmI

who am I?

but all I know is what I am,
with hungers alien to man.


the past I cannot dwell upon,
the memories, almost gone
reduced to shadows in the mind,
like the self I cannot find.

instead we hunt our former kind,
to taste their blood as sweet as wine
and cringe against the risk of day,
when predators become the prey.

a repetition of despair,
the furtive flight to anywhere
to rise again with mournful cry,
and sing to the fat-mooned sky

WhoAmI
WhoAmI

who am I?

but all I know is what I am,
the pariah who was once a man.
[comments] => 2 [counter] => 212 [topic] => 39 [informant] => spike [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 0 [ratings] => 0 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => Grief ) Your Poetry Dot Com - Outcasts


Outcasts
Date: Sunday, 4th May 2014 @ 02:53:48 AM AEST
Topic: Sad Poetry

Contributed By: spike
they force us from the border towns,
kill us if they track us down
with hate almost as great as fear,
to drive us further beyond here.

we hold together, in the rain,
a family born of awful pain
of teeth as sharp as razor blades,
and appetites in crimson shades.

in the dark we are as one,
and sleep against the burning sun
then rise again with mournful sigh,
to squall wide-eyed at moonless sky

WhoAmI
WhoAmI

who am I?

but all I know is what I am,
with hungers alien to man.


the past I cannot dwell upon,
the memories, almost gone
reduced to shadows in the mind,
like the self I cannot find.

instead we hunt our former kind,
to taste their blood as sweet as wine
and cringe against the risk of day,
when predators become the prey.

a repetition of despair,
the furtive flight to anywhere
to rise again with mournful cry,
and sing to the fat-mooned sky

WhoAmI
WhoAmI

who am I?

but all I know is what I am,
the pariah who was once a man.


This poem is Copyright © spike


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