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In Courtesy of the Lost

Poetry By: Flowless
Poetry



Rambling on about how i despise indiffrent people.


Submitted:Mar 21, 2012    Reads: 3    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   


In Courtesy of the Lost

In shades of grey they wander.

Fighting to stay buried down under.

Underneath the earth that numbs their pain.

Underneath the sand that keeps them sane.

I watch upon thee as I walk through this life.

No chances taken, Ohh how I despise.

Despise their way of living and their need to regret.

Despise their corrupting souls, never staying nor fled.

The very marrow of their bones, rotting from within.

Much like leafs in fall, Blood stained and ripped oh so thin.

So thin and bloodstained that it calls for utter disgust.

Yet so appealing, like lust arising from nothing but dust.

Getting scorned by the carelessness.

I reach out and grasp.

I grasp for some air.

Some air pure and sharp.

As the air rushes through my veins.

As it rushes, and strikes upon my brain.

I feel not sorry, nor pity at least.

I feel only sorrow and vengeance of the beast.

As I weep my way through these empty days.

I feel how time marks itself upon my face.

The scars may be invisible on the surface of thy skin.

But they are concealed deep and toughly within.

Cold, dead and decaying, Like flesh ripped from bone.

The devil worshipping peasants reap what they've sown.

A life in purgatory that was what they'd expect.

An eternity in hell is more likely, unless even Shitan will reject.

Preachers are standing high and mighty tight.

Like lambs eating lions, they're teaching what's right.

Teaching upon the dead masses, teaching them sight.

Till their eyes fill with tears, and their hearts fill with fright.

Once was created, this world from untainted soil.

Now is no more, but capitals of agony, in a mind-devouring coil.

The essence of ecstasy, long forgotten and demised.

Self-proclaimed gods, whose power cannot be compromised.

Bleeding wounds never became scars.

As the soul wouldn't heal.

But maybe for a moment, just a moment.

The wandering corpses awoke to feel.

It may be painful, it may be sore.

But that is life in its most unpolluted form; so why do we ignore?

Ignore the fact that pain is so pure and true.

Pure like winters snow, true as only the god fearing few.

Like icy water, it engulfs their void shells.

Freezing them to the boiling point.

Freezing the blood, tormenting every little joint.

Burning their veins, like a cancer blemishing all, never to aroint.

In courtesy of the lost! Are they ours to save?

Blindly stumbling through existence.

Hands anxiously stretched forward.

With something barely resembling to faith.

The vast majority I look upon, here from my refuge.

They live their lives in nothingness and dispute.

Am I a daemon or am I a saint?

Shall I call upon thee, as a shepherd in aid?

The questions are many, the answers are few.

Why oh why won't they listen, is my run about to be through?

Nothing is certain, nor is my spirit empty draught.

As long as they'll let me, I will be enriched by thought.





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