by Tom Mcmurray

Created on: July 07, 2010

I turn away the light of truth,
though bright it shines eternally;
as I now search the dark of youth
for life devoid of history.

Born filled with primal fear inbred
(a wingless mountain butterfly)
who waited trapped by wretched dread,
within mad vision graves, to die.

A body bent by rhythmic birth
sucked marrow out of bone and brine;
each wound leaked blood back into earth
as earth gives refuge to divine.

The fragile cuts were foul and spent
but no stitch thrown seemed obvious;
its fabric labored, torn and rent
by images grown spurious.

And this we carry to our graves
in extant bliss of ignorance.
No worry worth the time it saves
before the black of permanence.

A life once sewn with threads of smoke,
(translucent trend in lunacy)
is but illusion's buried yoke -
a veiled and failed transparency.

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