Blood, a gift
Kaiza Urai12 Feb, 2013 07:29 PM
Am I really so unusual Am I such an awful thing? That I deserved such prejudice From you who acts as king? Look at yourself, so noble and wise An emperor so bold To slay your own kin without thought To keep your stash of gold I tell you, king, Sir Demigod All things that live must end And you shall mend your evil ways And your wrongs you shall amend For if you call me such a beast A beast then I shall be For I am soul-less, Satan’s work And you shall all fear me A creature of sin I may be A burden to the world But heed my words before you see My hidden wrath unfurled I’m forced to live in solitude You isolate my kin But that won’t stop me bringing down The true sin from within Yes, the blood still calls to me But it will satisfy my thirst To see this tyrant, cold and cruel With a heart open and burst. I breathed my last so long ago But human I remain For human thoughts are never far From lurking in my brain You say a monster cannot love But that is far from true But only demons possibly love A sinner such as you I have said enough for now But I leave you this parting gift A curse given both foul and fair Consider the thirst for blood a gift.
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CommentsPost a Comment
20 Jul, 2013 08:35 PM
woww!! Your poems are fantastic Kaiza! I really love them! I hope you post more! Great work!!
21 Aug, 2013 05:16 AM
Bravo, this remarkable phrase is necessary just by the way
30 Aug, 2013 02:00 PM
Bravo, your idea it is very good
23 Nov, 2013 05:07 AM
After I buried my love, in that nhiatmgre February of 1985, I was alone and all I wanted was death. it took me 25 years to even try to be alive again, and some nights its still a struggle. There was a poem that expressed my feelings and still does on the dark and alien nights where the love I have now seems far away, and the love I had then seems very close. No, its not uplifting, but it captured the feelings I had kneeling by that stone. - The Garden of Proserpine by Algernon Charles SwinburneHere, where the world is quiet ; Here, where all trouble seemsDead winds’ and spent waves’ riot In doubtful dreams of dreams ;I watch the green field growingFor reaping folk and sowing,For harvest-time and mowing, A sleepy world of streams.I am tired of tears and laughter, And men that laugh and weep ;Of what may come hereafter For men that sow to reap :I am weary of days and hours,Blown buds of barren flowers,Desires and dreams and powers And everything but sleep.Here life has death for neighbour, And far from eye or earWan waves and wet winds labour, Weak ships and spirits steer ;They drive adrift, and whitherThey wot not who make thither ;But no such winds blow hither, And no such things grow here.No growth of moor or coppice, No heather-flower or vine,But bloomless buds of poppies, Green grapes of Proserpine,Pale beds of blowing rushesWhere no leaf blooms or blushesSave this whereout she crushes For dead men deadly wine.Pale, without name or number, In fruitless fields of corn,They bow themselves and slumber All night till light is born ;And like a soul belated,In hell and heaven unmated,By cloud and mist abated Comes out of darkness morn.Though one were strong as seven, He too with death shall dwell,Nor wake with wings in heaven, Nor weep for pains in hell ;Though one were fair as roses,His beauty clouds and closes ;And well though love reposes, In the end it is not well.Pale, beyond porch and portal, Crowned with calm leaves, she standsWho gathers all things mortal With cold immortal hands ;Her languid lips are sweeterThan love’s who fears to greet herTo men that mix and meet her From many times and lands.She waits for each and other, She waits for all men born ;Forgets the earth her mother, The life of fruits and corn ;And spring and seed and swallowTake wing for her and followWhere summer song rings hollow And flowers are put to scorn.There go the loves that wither, The old loves with wearier wings ;And all dead years draw thither, And all disastrous things ;Dead dreams of days forsaken,Blind buds that snows have shaken,Wild leaves that winds have taken, Red strays of ruined springs.We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure ;To-day will die to-morrow ; Time stoops to no man’s lure ;And love, grown faint and fretful,With lips but half regretfulSighs, and with eyes forgetful Weeps that no loves endure.From too much love of living, From hope and fear set free,We thank with brief thanksgiving Whatever gods may beThat no life lives for ever ;That dead men rise up never ;That even the weariest river Winds somewhere safe to sea.Then star nor sun shall waken, Nor any change of light :Nor sound of waters shaken, Nor any sound or sight :Nor wintry leaves nor vernal,Nor days nor things diurnal ;Only the sleep eternal In an eternal night.