There are echoes of memories,
Where nightmares are grown
Like an imprint of fear
Infused into bone
Teeth made of charcoal,
Will etch out a moan
And words in strange fonts
Of a language unknown
We keep hold of reason
In fingers that crack
Murmuring lost names
But we always lose track
We're distracted by silence
And it's need to attack
Is it blades or white feathers
That are lodged in your back
Can you interpret the meaning
Beyond truths that arise
To see camouflaged vitriol
Behind each set of eyes
Maybe it's parched tongues
That lost tears baptise
Relishing sweat poison
When we spill out our lies
In the end we are human
But only in name
A puppet of impulse
In a pinned up flesh frame
We will go through the motions
To shed off the blame
Yet down to the marrow
We are broken the same.
About the Creator
Obsidian Words
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Message Me Afterwards
>That was a bad idea. I thought you knew… >Oh, the pathos! I don’t really know you as well as I should. In fact, I may not know the real you at all. That essential, sparkling you that you only reveal to a select few. Had I been paying more attention to the stories you are so fond of telling, in which you are invariably author, narrator and protagonist, I would not have been so foolish as to set you up on a blind date. After all, no friend has ever done anything of the kind for another. That’s preposterous. What is a friend, really?
By D. J. Reddall5 days ago in Fiction
Comments (2)
made my stomach hurt which is how i know it’s good- the line “imprint of fear/ infused on the bone” was so visceral like yes !!!
puppet of impulse! Great lines throughout your poem, nice job!