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Swollen sacs beneath the earth, that hold your memories from early birth. They hold your treasures and ooze with puss, they're a siren in the background, highlighting the fuss. 10 feet deep beneath brown soil, where pirates' spoils lay unspoilt, a gypsy's curse bathing in toil, embroiled in blood where maggots slither and rock slabs thud. The dregs of the past, bear a heavy cloak; like the ganja man's croak after one too many tokes. The facade of the past seems sentimental and nostalgic, but the truth you've forgotten just brings up the sick from within your stomach, which you suppress with tears and try to gain headway by labeling them childish fears. You tried in the past, you were your own kid but the others were different; they cared more than you did. But, time won't turn his head for you, he'll leave you outside queuing 'til the cold snap turns you blue. Although you may snatch at quanta of the past, you bought the materials now construct your path. [ Back to "Dark, Horror Poems" page ] |
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