Flesh in Chains
Flesh in chains—
Are you kidding me?
Is this a game?
It has to be.
Perhaps some sort of sadomasochistic flame
That extinguishes itself with enough pain?
It's as a picture,
Yet I'm lost in the frame.
Some coarse, mystic scripture
That has me wandering and wondering
If this is the correct way
To handle those deranged,
If our methods are, in fact,
I'm tied to this;
I can't redo it.
We're lost in
A lethal influence.
These dog chains rattle
I'm losing my mettle,
Where's my endurance?
Our hearts beat faster in this tense spot.
Our minds' schemes fasten up to rot.
Is this a dream?
How unreal it seems
To be jotted under their Heaven's gleam.
There's no light—I find only artificial cold.
Their money might buy nice houses as you get old,
As your soul is sold,
As you're as an Eskimo,
As you betray your people.
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Comments about this poem (Flesh in Chains by Edwin Cordero )
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
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