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User Rating: |
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8.3
/10
(4
votes)
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He stares from the stars at the cantelopes and allotropes,
Colourful through the eyepiece of his brand new kaleidoscope,
Contemplating engaging in a conversation with his candle(hope)
But prefers to alternate the knots on his rusty rope.
He sees the old man,
Playing a game of chess, a solitary contest.
Old man/young man-a neck line sun tan.
He fell in love with his best friend,
Touched his cheek, seeking the love
That his father shitted on every week,
Intrigue switched to blood curdling hatred,
He kicked, and kicked, and kicked,
But his mother didn't want him,
She'd watch the television feeling her belly,
Wondering what it'd be like to feed him ice cream and jelly,
A joy she'll never know because of her unwillingness to grow,
A naked body in the golden sands,
The victim of incest at her father's hands-
Now she tugs at her son's DNA strands,
Another victim at the hands of life.
He looks over his shoulder at the planets and patterns,
As his eyes unicycle on the rings of saturn-
He picks up the sun and lights his soul's lantern,
He raises his lantern and the pathway to self becomes apparent,
His soul's now burning inferno of faith eternal
Envelopes the candle and destroys its purpose,
He straightens a ring of saturn and with it-
Carves his name on the blank canvas that made it.
Armed with life's answers he returns to His kaleidoscope.
He sees a young woman sobbing on a sidewalk,
A rainy urban landscape fed the wounds that gaped.
Raped.
The blood drips from her broken nails as she
Questiones her dwindling faith,
Struggling to hold onto the rails.
She puts on her torn garments and throws her
Rosary down a nearby drain,
She limps down the path illuminated with street lights,
And slips into a local bar oblivious to the pain.
Grabbing a scissors as she slithers through this dark story,
She takes a turn and enters the gentlemens' lavatory.
A father of three, a husband of one,
He now lays dead,
Clutching a picture of his son,
The tool that helped him create his son's life,
Desacrated by the tool of a woman's strife.
Another victim at the hands of life.
He angrily retreats from the scope,
Repulsed by the lack of faith in Him.
The story angers Him.
'This heathen will no longer worship the one who gave her life! '
He's sick of this world filled with sin!
He basks in the glory of his powers
And rains hate and envy on the entities He devours,
He laughs at the people who proclaim him a saviour,
And is entertained by the rise in evil behaviour,
He is our saviour, He is our saviour! ! ! !
If this is so he is the writer, producer and director
Of the stories that satan favours.
An inebriated leader with no direction,
Sadistic and unecassary,
And should be demoted to our soul's secondary.
Shane Sebago
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Comments about this poem (His Kaleidoscope
by
Shane Sebago
) |
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comments about this poem (His Kaleidoscope by
Shane Sebago
)
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Not a member No 6
(7/10/2008 5:10:00 PM) |
Your love of, feel for, and skill with language are obvious, and you bring to your work an imagination that's rich and less restricted than most. Your work is engrossing, and I think you have considerable potential. jim
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