Of Muses And Other Ghosts
At The Grave Of The Murdered
Only the paper knows,
how much grief my heart holds
for the innocent buried by the world
under the stones it throws.
I close my eyes. But it gets worst.
Bloody stones, I curse you.
Oh how useless it is
to wait for God's justice.
God, are you really their God?
I gather the stones.
The blood on them, clings to my skin
like children cling to mothers,
and sins step deep, into my soul,
wearing masks, painted with the grinning faces of the dead,
all gathered in a pile,
emptied of life, emptied of dreams,
but full of coagulated blood and broken bones,
in the name of what they call saint.
put them in front of me
the murderers in chains,
and at my feet, a mountain of stones.
In my hand, I'll take the bloodiest of them all,
while tears will waltz on my face, with the smiles of revenge.
I'd be happy.
to have nothing between me and their skin.
Even if it will take me my whole life,
I'll give them back their stones.
I'll make my poems sharp enough to bruise their hearts.
I've had enough.
But you, what the hell are you looking at?
Are you gonna help me or not?
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