Suburban Babylon

To the saint, the prophetess, the broken idol.

There is a war in whispering,

A silent insurgence.

The essence of conformity,

Meets hallowed divergence.

 

I wrestle with the the fire in her eyes.

She tells me everything is born to die.

 

The words of the prophets replaced,

By the pride of apostates.

Should her body speak in secrets,

I'll take them to my grave.

 

I shudder at the chill in her voice.

She tells me no one is born with a choice.

 

We thrive, we're limbs and branches.

Cut off and cast away,

Baptized in burning flame,

We rise, children of the ashes.

 

Tandem and abreast, we will follow to our deaths.

We penned the bullet that stole your last breath.

 

Where you've fallen, we will stand.

We will carry on.

These streets will not remember,

This suburban babylon.

Author's Note

I'm not sure if this painted the portrait I wanted, but I think it's close. Did you love it; hate it; fond indifference? Let me know below.

Reviews

[paparapapa]

This gave me the chills. As I read it, I imagined that prophetess from the movie 300 (I hope I got it right). :)) Anyway, great imagery you have here. Lines like this...

"I wrestle with the the fire in her eyes.
She tells me everything is born to die."

really helped in portraying the image that you want us to see. Really cool write. Keep them coming. :P

[ChaoticSoul]

You write in such a beautiful lyrical way, and your word choices are absolutely superb. I adore this poem because I can read it one way and see myself standing in a field of war, watching the fight rage on. And then, I can read it in another way and apply it's metaphorical beauty to the obstacles faced in everyday life. I tip my hat to you, good fellow *tips hat*

[Mary C]

Really, very sad but how well you've expressed it!