Another poem that I wrote alone,
Another one that blossomed from woe.
Will this be the last poem I'll writ?
The gift from the Goddess thrown in a pit?
Have I deicided the Moon's tallow dreams;
A divulged matricide to noose bind gleams.
Why is it suicide I clearly heed,
Carpe Diem, Alas I bleed.
Mother Moon have I annulled you,
or do You feel each mourning too?
One were You weren't pulled to plunder,
And vulgar glooms ain't our thunder...
Our flagrent gospel played on the violin,
Like my veins we cut the strings!
Maybe it was only more attention I required?
Ply it with the girl I vast desired...
Now frisson will our final chords,
Through the bleeding of silver swords.
The Moon hung severed and bloated high.
Hope outlast... By my inevitable nigh...
I wanted love, even if it would be paper thin,
So it wasn't only the blade to swim within!
there's no time to be afraid of fear;
'Cause I'll be hung like graveyard tears...
Death my Dark Messiah!
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Comments about this poem (Past Recollection by Jimmy Brouwers )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
Rainer Maria Rilke
(4 December 1875 – 29 December 1926)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
Ella Wheeler Wilcox
(5 November 1850 - 30 October 1919)
(27 October 1914 – 9 November 1953)
(13 February 1879 - 2 March 1949)
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