The Thing We Share

A sadder poem of war, check the attached picture, it fits the poem well.

Part 1: A Machine Called God

Physiochemical parthenogenesis revenants

Of neo genesis pendulums of evangelical asymmetrical

Empty entropy evanescence’s clandestinely bioluminescent

Extraterrestrial celestials incandescent revelling renaissance

A Machine Called God dilapidated masquerading maquiladora devil black metamorphosis

Albion or Deus ex machina, of Necronomicon cartilage

Permafrost gothic glossolalia eschatology of pentecostal perihelion

Evangelion melancholy frolicking belladonna

Hanukkah harmoniously monarchal archangel draconian

Free of pandemonium’s grief the leaves of winter exist in chrysanthemums

An amphitheatre of ampersand

Quadriplegic beings daydreaming seeking the light from the wanderers' window

The wanderlust thimbles the dust pyrokinesis sequences

Of relentless sentenceless words that transference the metallurgical purgatory of

The metamorphosis we agoraphobic lonely homeless souls of potent woes

Of porcelain ghosts loathsome of the solace we’ve known

Mitosis emotion through the cloak of a windbreaker’s conversation

 

Part 2: Crybaby Reaper

The bellowing melancholic orchestras

Incorporeal metamorphosis of transmogrified diabolical spite

Serpentine danced their masquerades

Around evening mass graves where the summer sun goes to shiver

In the arms of the earthly abyss orphaned

By our pilgrimage spoken in shrapnel bouncing off the walls ricocheting

Into our souls until we too played a swan-song our heavy hearts as light as a feather

And somewhere, listening, some lowly God of tomorrow said:

I gave you back your lives, so why are you killing yourselves?

And the people said

For you

And our Stygian shadow replied

Where is your humanity?

And the people said

In the ground

Sowing the seeds for the reaping

And the ludicrous God cried for broken mannequins amidst the stone

For the soil bore sunflowers that could no longer grow old

But the stems would always look to the stars buried in heaven

Let the angel of death bury the past

And from the ashes grown under a bright future

At least someone will reap our harvest, under flare of darkness

As a tenebrous albasterine man of taijitu shining black in humble appreciation for our sins

Will reincarnate a concrete jungle of our tombstones

New as the mourning rays of a heaven that couldn’t house our hatred

And they will call that Babylonian monolith of crucifixion’s hieroglyphic-

Heart beating the broken-bodied stained glass image of tyranny God

Should intermittent vengeance arm again his red right hand to plague us?

And that Reaper, God himself will kill tens of thousands if it pleases him

As he is an amalgamation of what we have killed for humility,

And only knows our suffering

The one thing we can truly share

Author's Note

I promise I read every single review, and I generally will reply to them. I look forward to my next review, because it helps me learn. Even if it's just one word, I promise, I will be happy to hear anything you feel needs sharing. Whenever you write on my shortcomings or breakthroughs, or the themes of my poems, or share ideas and friendly criticism, it decides my next poem to an extent. I will listen, learn and be thankful. And 99% of the time, you'll get a reply unless you're trolling me.