Not Believing There inside the walls of my nature lies buried a heart of stone covered in red paint Architects of Transformation feel no love they only build cities of words etched like grains of sand upon the hands of time They do not bleed like you they do not breathe like you they do not love like you They only build cities to lure in the travellers off dusty roads an oasis of epic proportion A lush life of hyperbole and dangling participle designed like small dwellings an abode for weary unenlightened souls to place each and every emotion in a separate and carefully worded room Cyclops of poetic abortion stands ready to strike it all down with a kiss like this...
Syyd Raven's Questions:
I was wanting to feel somehow, detached from my work. To say that I am no
more than an Architect, and I build cities for you, where you can place of
emotion and compartmentalize it, make it safe.
is this poem safe?
How does the reader approach the word abortion? Does it bring disdain to the mind immediately?