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Butchers of my dreams
poetry [ ]

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by [romulus_campan ]

2005-11-07  |     | 

All sorts of weird people I feel
As deep they bite my life and chew it
Not that there’s any other hurt to peel
For pain’s my treasure to its last bit.

A knife they left; their toy to children
Of hope; to when all joys died out
“Do it yourself” kit for the time when
The only hope’s the certainty of doubt.

Oh, how delightful life is
Would you be having napkins, please?
Or toilet paper, diapers, mummies
To wipe my feelings dry, Louise.


Oh, raptured morning, evening glow
Of what my eyes are drinking
You barless prison, stringless bow
Beheaded death with fingers itching.

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