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Array
(
[sid] => 143813
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => The Demise
[time] => 2008-07-10 15:53:18
[hometext] =>
[bodytext] => And in the Roman August Of our tragic days The light had all but withered, The ephemeral existence of hope Washed away in the drain of misery And when the sun had guided us On the narrow, precarious ledge of the precipice The view of the chasms of hatred Had disseminated our feelings of dread And invoked the unmistakable signs of jubilance The mere tractable task of following the yellow butterfly As it swum in the air of the musty afternoon siesta Failed us in an overshadow of hypocrisy That old Meloquaides had nae foreseen Breached never was the world we coveted The world where armistice served as a synonym Of the war between the verbal accusations, Those neck-throttling, sweat smeared vocations, Of utter enmity, that forestalled The comings of a prophet with the double barreled shotgun And upon his arrival, Shots he fired into the horizon of eternity Cartridges that circumnavigated the world In a dizzying trance of the parallel journey, And prophecies and practicalities it bore None seeing the other’s fleeting face Like unto turning wheels of a velocipede A rotation hindered in the path of those prancing vultures Who hath emblazoned the name of chastity As an evanescent representation of the patron Who had but forewarned his predecessors Of the silence to ensue, Had not the Angel apparated on the land divine Amidst tumultuous uproar of cattle to the slaughter Idyllic and pristine Aloof as yet about the goings of the chasm Yet armed with the device Liable to desiccate sanctity From the churned black ashes That had been our hearts O solitary warrior! O fair maiden! O dear taciturn Reverend! Lo behold! The amphitheatre of life Goes not in lines straight to the vision It is but a repetitory cycle Of concentric circles That have separated you From the minds of your most desired Now, afore I ascend to the heavens, Neither the prophet, nor the angel Shall show you the meanings of your life And even from your dearests Will you decipher a facade of mirages That they think to be their lives Oh the lives of people Are but mirrors facing each other With nothing to reflect but themselves I despise the lucky one The last of our race The ultimate descendant of Adam Who shall know the meaning of life In the penultimate minute The entire history of all our lives will he hear Recited as weightless lead by the one in his head And when he shall hear the last seconds of the lives of men Shall the concentric circles of mirrors Smash in upon himself And the hand that made it all Shall withdraw in methodical harmony All shall be lost. [comments] => 0 [counter] => 234 [topic] => 43 [informant] => Safeer [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 34 [ratings] => 7 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => oops )
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