My Two Hands

Posted by Brad Osborne on March 4, 2021 · 12 Comments 

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The air hangs like a traitor

Motionless and well dead

A raucous silence

Stagnating the ear

Un-whispered in the dark

It smells like a thousand years

Light ever the prodigal

And night is e’er king

Sighted by the blindness

I grope the remains

The bones of my feast

Held in the muck and the mire

The pitch-black tar

Of the lesser soul

The wished away

Unregurgitated evils

Bound in the gut of hatred

Rotting rose blood red

Bear not false dream

For what I find, I earned

I put it there

With my own two hands

I have filled this sacred ground

With every thought

With every act

I have built their hell

And placed their bodies within

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Filed under Poetry · Tagged with actions, dark, death, deeds, evil, free form poetry, future, good, karma, life, light, past, poem, Poetry, prodigal