Turnabout

Wed, 08/28/2013 - 21:10 -- sshis

A poet in a world without onions

doesn't see the clouds as white.

In a world without apples

clowns' noses aren't red.

The world has no color.

 

The rivers have become blood;

There is nothing to eat

and humanity dies.

 

The soothsayers and prophets

are ground to dust.

Their prophecies, forgotten.

 

The darkness overwhelms you.

It chokes you,

and it wants to cover you until you die.

 

You are nameless, unimportant,

and foretold to walk the earth forever

speaking the faults of those you hated

as if daring them to disturb their graves

and come back for vengence

just so you can kill them once again,

and become the hated.

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