Sparks

I tried to focus on metaphors. Hope you enjoy the poem.

I walked around half-dead, a man made out of led

I was lost in the rocky outcrops of suffering, a fossilized leviathan

The riptide idling, screaming violins in the silence rioting until the fire stroked my iron

And again, I was lost

Hammered down into a product, something made to bleed and shed red tears, sparks of life

In the mismatched rhapsody, apathetic to angelic devils in the attic forging weapons for the Nephilim

I was sorry even if it seemed I didn’t mean it

And I was gone

Rotting in the evil emptiness a renegade of memories dismembering my cemetery of lies

And I was despised dispatched to die

And drown myself in sanguine daydreams of flowers red resurrected death

My time is short, he’s almost here and I’ll be gone, shattered by the grapevines of time

Amidst the frost of relapse in disaster, the cold grindstone, I once cut through my youth, bore fruit

Because everything that flowers withers to wickers

Is somehow devoured by the hourglass, shifting in obsidian fires, darkening to sparks of rejuvenation

In the sand grave of another day, sanguine machinery will rust in its combustion, corrupted sustenance

I’ve shook hands with death, and scratched by the blackboard skin of my rusted teeth several times

Teeth that have ripped through flesh like a hot iron through the ice, a crackling bonfire

I have tasted this cold world and swallowed my dignity, consuming my universe, biting into the meat

I have served meals and birthed my iron pride so many times that these scraps of metal have pierced unending hearts of those hungry for more than just rapture

I may be a rusted blade, but sharpen me, oil me, and I can still cut

At one time I cut diamonds into glass afterimages and drew a line in the sand, redesigned

As people walked the beach once undisturbed I was submerged by the footprints that trampled over my world

Fragile paper drifting distantly over the coursing ocean, I was once again a man made of lead

I may be a burnt match, but scratch me against the earth, and I can still cinder

Penny dreadfuls the embers of my memories, a catalyst on an anvil, caramel melting in the smelter

Buried in the surge, hidden under earth, eventually, I was forgotten, until I became the sparks in the fire of another blade

And I lived once more, gone, before being lost

Author's Note

I very seldom reply to reviews, but I promise I read EVERY single one. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be ecstatic to have the chance to hear what you have to say. Whenever you write something about my poems, or the themes of my poems, or criticize me it is not in vain. I will listen, learn and be thankful.