Author Information
Sacrilege
O Mountain of Ice.
Dedication to my ever growing fascination
With the traumas of everyday
Subtelty. Basic addictions
of life. Those little things
That we admire in life. I
Find myself watching leaves
Populate the ground while
Listening to Messiah
by Handel. Those little things.
How you come to miss those
Things in people. Gentle lips,
Flowing hair, beckoning laughter,
All but float back to ones mind
When kept in a cold hearted shelter
Of seperation.
To reach ones hand beneath scalding
Water to somply make sure one can feel,
To scratch the skin to make sure one can
Still bleed, to seperate from ones emotion
To make sure one can still think,
This is the land I live in. No
Sorrow, No happiness.
This desecrates my soul, embeds
Uneasiness in those crevices
Where contentedness used to live.
Love knows no bounds for
Boundaries no longer exist.
Truly one could only hope
to reach self realization
on some level granted to
him by a higher level.
I find that questions go
unanswered and answers are
offered towards things unasked.
those masks I used to create
To create emotion had bloomed
and melded to my face, this gave
Me true emotion. Alas, this bloom
Was ripped from its slumber, and
Forced into recession, my mask
Which had been forged from thousands
And brought into one single mask,
Now has become a multitude,
All of which burn to the touch.
I will wear them no more,
Lest true emotion finds its way to me again,
Then I shall ne'er again find it.
