Font Color='#880000'Thought [italian Sonnet] /Font Poem by David Zvekic

I am he who strikes the flint which sparks the flame,
  who proffers tears where thorns pin blinded eyes,
  whose secrets clear a path of cobbled cries,
  whose choices cannot promise more than pain;
  A freedom without options to remain
  as dagger blades, that faith might sterilize,
  their edges keen as hopes content on lies;
  A barren waste where light shall make no claim.

  A single muted wail amongst the squeals,
  as millions press perfection's crushing wheels,
  how sickening true power tears down dreams,
  but pleasures them to thrive above our screams,
  as uselessly imposed to service greed:
I am he who leaves the throng to stand unheard.

-January 31,2006