I (The Riddle)

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Another poem from the darkness. For some reason when I feel this way I write more........

Lying awake in the darkness unable to sleep, the mind plays tricks and sometimes the bad man comes calling.

Submitted: March 14, 2008

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Submitted: March 14, 2008

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I (The riddle)
 
I’m walking but I do not live. I exhale but I do not breathe. I talk but I do not speak. I listen but I do not hear. I touch but I do not feel. I cry but I do not weep. I grieve but I do not mourn. I pray but I do not hope.
 
I would never admit and I will never confess. My sins are my own to carry to my grave. My pride condemns the prisoner in a solitary cell. The prisoner who is guilty beyond belief to face recrimination upon the Tyburn hill, one last ride, takes one for the road.
 
 
I’m watching but I do not see. I’m numb but still feel pain. I laugh but do not feel joy. I take but I do not give. I wound but I do not heal. I kill but do not give life. I break but do not mend. I steal but do not feel guilt.
 
I would never say the words only have them enslave my mind. A slave to beat a slave to punish, a slave to bind, to ensnare in bondage and to gag forever. Barbed wire surrounds the heart cutting into my soul.
 
I struggle but I do not fight. I cut but do not bleed. I hang but I am not hanged. I snatch but I do not embrace. I love but do not feel loved. I reach but I do not clasp. I rend but I do not mend the tear.
 
I would never use the language, not of love but of hatred and war, of killing and destruction, never to raise Lazarus only to condemn him to be crucified as I crucify my heart. Drive the nails into my soul if it helps you to believe.
 
I scream but I make no sound. I howl but I see no moon. I run but I do not move. I fly but I do not soar. I fall but I do not land. I’m entombed but I am not buried. I’m burned but I am not cremated. I am scattered but I am not cast.
 
I would never soil the air with my words, of desire and desperation. A sour sound upon the wind of grating steel and agony, a clatter of bones upon the air, a fetid stink within a field of roses from a corpse entangled in the thorns.
 
I rot but I do not wither. I decay but I am not decaying. I decompose but I am not decreasing. I am blood but I do not flow. I am death but I do not die. I reap but I do not sow.
 
Who am I?
 
Boneman 12/03/08
 
©Boneman productions 2008
 
 
 
 
 


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