Asinas (Song of Self-Hatred)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Phoenix Poetry

Submitted: February 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: February 20, 2017

A A A

A A A


My mind is a withering concept, 
Ideals are as real as breath; 
Words are pale bodies that carry all thought and typical refuge
Of heartlessness- I despise myself.
The list is imprinted in nerves on the back of my skull:
Childhood fears, the commune of death, the clarity of robotics, the stern pales of waste and confusion.
- The glands in my throat have returned to their natural state of that usual (thick) iron that swells and leaks, 
(Ah, the wealthy man has repented and the tramp is disgraced) .
Aristocratic noses and infant revolt- Hope has no meaning.
No heart, no thought. It is full of air and sharpness. En
dangered myths, enstranged youth!Toothpicks prick from my gums. A kiss is classic and boring.
Soon Something will change. That too! 
Futures are empty and I articulate overwhelmingly.

Upon Summer's decay, or at the height of unnatural Dawns, 
You may see him. -That fool.
The ancient fool weaved in green and frowns, crossed arms and armours of liquid.
-He paces wildly through thickets and blazing villages, 
Holding banners that are unreadable. 
He promises nothing, he searches for the song.
How long must I hide on this page? 

Strings are heavy
Rhythms peel and melt
Pale moulds are shredded
But the musician has no shame, 
He is lost in the eyes of the Asinas.

-Soon is Dawn.
The Dawn is as worn as words an as encompassing as thought. 


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