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The Angel Speaks No matter my name, that power to summon is not granted lightly. You believe nothing, only tomorrow will come renewed but just slightly. Light of years but aged unfine, no sweetness to humankind, just prowess to take. Artfulness instead of art, knowledge without wisdom like a game of poker without a stake. The suffering of the few not to fall weary down among your rabble, devise demise to be rid of you. In the throbbing muscle you know this, despising them more for their angelic difference. And that they will not stay to see you betray warmed over pater mater display. There is no pleasure to those for whom I've come, to be your child, wife, husband, lover, Knowing you haven't the time to refine one moment's breath. Into the sweet wind's carry of thought. And that I alone will never miss them for I will not let them go to tenuous fate. For to them I come without summon. |
Additional Notes:
If anything, among this thing you call a culture, how many of its "forsaken"
merely mark time in wait?
This Poem was Critiqued By: Lora Silvey On Date: 2007-04-02 17:04:25
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Ah James,
To this reader you speak of the plight of mankind turning in on it's self. No one seeking, searching, desiring enlightenment and even if found; denying that which is given. So what is there to say for this race of beings, are they without hope or redemption, can they be salvaged? Will anyone hear the words you offer, and if so will they truly contemplate what you've laid out? Bravo and kudos.
Best,
Lora