Resurrection - Poem by James Lewis
One quick snap I'm cognizant, no standing in this place, in pitch black dark I lay can't see my hand before my face,
my wingspan's non existent, cushioned wood up by my head, the sayers nay have fine'lly gone and buried me for dead.
They should've checked my pulse before they shut the coffin top, attempts to leave me like they do these young'ns off the block,
but haters are so sloppy otherwise they'd know for sure, my heart is truly still before the final coup de jour.
I don't know how much time has passed since I was buried deep, the casket lid is weak, I feel the dirt and moisture seep,
through cracks unseen, it's blasphemy to think that I'd succumb, I'll resurrect my being cause I'm nume'ro dos to none.
I use my knees to break apart the lid atop my cage, the soft'ning soil drizzles down onto my suit clad frame,
I claw my way through earth ignoring parts that scream with pain, my right hand breaks the plain to feel the rush of streaming rain.
The nighttime air is filled with all the power of my core, they left me dead and buried so I'll give them all what for,
and resurrect myself to fit the image of the gods, a total metamorphasis in spirit, mind and bod.
My words will wrap around you like a python, squeeze you tight, enough to make your ribcage splinter til you bleed inside,
don't hide behind requests for mercy, it was meant to be, which may convincingly convert my friends to enemies.
Committed sins I will atone to climb life's hill alone, with skills from off the dome I turn my foes to skinless bones,
a mind as warped as mine will kill em all and steal the throne, decapitate the king and have his cabbage sealed in stone.
I sit now on my grave with fractured personalities, there's Donald Rhymus, Tony Stanza, JD's R.I.P.,
I then begin to scream out to the thunderstorm I see, like Al Pacino on the steps, the end, GodFather 3,
and though I love to joke, wait til they get a load of me!
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