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?

Thank you.