Asinas (The Song Of Self-Hatred) Poem by Riano Harp

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 read as reels in the back of my skull-
Childhood fears, the commune of death, the clarity of robotics, the stern pale of waste and confusion.
- The glands in my throat have returned to their natural state of iron that swells and leaks,
(Ah, the wealthy man repenting, the tramp disgraced - what pitiful race do they belong to that subscribes them to thought?)
Aristocratic noses posing infant revolt - Faith has no meaning.
No heart, no thought. It is full of air and sharpness, an endangered myth. Toothpicks prick from my gums. A classic consummation.
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.
Beryl flesh and green instruments hanging from his frown, crossed arms and eyes, armours of liquid, the desire to find what was never lost!
Pacing wildly through thickets and blazing villages,
He Holds banners that are unreadable.
He promises nothing, he searches for the song.
How long must he sleep on this page?

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

-Soon is Dawn.
My stupor is worn as words and as encompassing as thought.