In a land called misantrophia
she was the first to ever see the redpainted sunset,ravished and beautiful. among ghastly shades of novembers
last immortal remains. somwhere, in the pale roads behind
her eyes, wolfgang amadeus mozart, played the slient
largo. nearly dead on bituminous pitch streets
and they never stopped. their eyes flickered behind
roughened twigs and demolising handcuffs. soon, they would
become prisoners of savagness with the rest of the pagan
humanity. obedience, loyalty and belief. all gone with the
common sense, which was already lost. they wouldn't listen
to the ones words of enlightened madness. sadness. and he
struck them hard.
"i speak with the voice of god, you infantile creatures,
hear me now - am i not merciful?"
she had gazed at the strange, fearful battle that day, and
the months after the ones first war cry. and yes, he had
cried. also when he desecrated the wife of his beloved,
but unfaithful servant. and all the maids in the
denomination, included herself. every time, listening to
the wickedness from the silent largo.
the wickedness from the silent largo.
Poetry by theo
Read 611 times
Written on 2006-05-28 at 23:26
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Zoya Zaidi |
