what kind of man
dances on the razor's edge
suckling madness from mother earth's nipples
birthing destruction in the name of brighter tomorrow's
at birth the body starts to degenerate
it crumbles at a handicapped snail's pace
and we think ourselves superhuman
the fraility of humanity is an inevitability
we remain blind to
we are submerged in a waterless atlantis
with an awful monkey on our backs
scratching, pointing, snarling
weighing us down
I have lost my way
1 comment:
this poem may be political, but if that is the case, I am chosing to interpret it in a different way. great post, thanks!
the kind of man who dances on the razor's edge is the kind of man
who dips his hands in deep pools of disasterous and brilliant passion ...
he records the moments of his thoughts in blood ...
he thinks he has lost his way, but he's only finding the start of a path, imagined or real, as he spreads his ideas across the world
Post a Comment